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IT MIGHT AS WELL RAIN (BOMBS) UNTIL SEPTEMBER

When I wrote this in 2002 I could not have realised how things would turn out. But I was talking about the US military ferrying the heroin down the mountains. Something that has been well covered up now.     IT MIGHT AS WELL RAIN (BOMBS) UNTIL SEPTEMBER Once more the heroin flows freely down…

When I wrote this in 2002 I could not have realised how things would turn out. But I was talking about the US military ferrying the heroin down the mountains. Something that has been well covered up now.

 

 

IT MIGHT AS WELL RAIN (BOMBS) UNTIL SEPTEMBER
Once more the heroin flows freely
down the mountains on muleback
to Pakistan
and onward to our cities.
In Miami, and New York, and London
The Lords of the Needle rejoice.
The Taliban
lockers were blasted open
and their poison released.

400,000 now starve. No voice
have they. How could they beg
us not to slaughter their livestock,
their lives, with our billion dollar bombs?

20,000 graves of the innocent
200,000 grieving for their loss.
More millions of tears than can be counted,
And still the pretty cluster bombs
draw the eyes of little children
and rob them of their limbs.

And more… our vengeance is unbounded.
Another country, another suspect reason.
Tell me! Tell us all! Tell the Universe!
What is a Weapon of Mass Destruction?
Is it a heat seeking missile?
Is it a fighter plane loaded with bombs?
Is it a bullet tipped with depleted uranium?
Is it a man?
Is it me?

She wore a white nightdress, and bent
With her head on her hands
And whimpered.

The old man, nailed to the wall.
Bullet nailed. The O
Of his mouth still ripe with surprise.

Whimpering, in that stark silence.
A chainsaw sound
Ripping a wound down his back.

“It’s alright” He said, stupid untruths
Ringing bells of grief.
Bodies, all gone, around him.

She was warm, and young, under his hand
On her shoulder
“It’s alright” He said again.

“I am a soldier. This is what I do.”
Rattled around like battle
In his blood-rushed ears.

He pushed, she moved and whimpered
Back against the wooden chair.
“It’s alright” He said again.

“It’s alright” He said again
“It’s alright!” He said again.
“It’s alright!” He shouted.

But the note on her chest said more.
It screamed. It roared!
“Her eyes are in the jar!”

Author: grahamwhittaker
What do I call myself? A novelist? A journalist? Writer on demand? Copywriter? Ghostwriter? Poet? Is there a single word to describe all these things? if anyone knows one please tell me. I started out life as a journalist after my service time in the RN. I was 22. My love then was music writing, contributing articles to most of the pop/rock magazines of the time. As time went by I ghostwrote biographies for celebs, wrote novels, and made a general living from writing everything from love letters to translating menus in China to acceptable English. I have written greetings cards, manuals, How to books on so many subjects I forget. My living has been as a writer on demand. So, my blog is an eclectic collection of HOW MY BRAIN WORKS. Recently I started writing blogs for company blogs. In my retirement I find myself writing more, about more subjects than I ever covered as a roving journalist. I ask myself why having reached the age of leisure why I am now busier than ever before! My last novel, The Girl From Kosovo has led to a second, which will be in your bookshops next year 2019, and my new anthology of shorts with the title Picking Up Peas With Chopsticks has just been uploaded as an ebook. (It's a pot boiler so don't expect a print version any time soon.) If you have a blog, or a job to offer, I'm an obsessive researcher and turnaround time is fast. Yes, I know, I'm a HACK. A writer for money. A gun for hire. But hey... we all have our failings. Thanks for calling in. Feel free to chat and comment. I'll even get back to you with a thank you note!

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