In this time of remembering the lost youth of the Great War, it is so important not to allow this to be hijacked by the establishment. By the politicians, the monarchy, the Military Industrial Complex, the established religious and business interests.
For it was into the hands of those interests that the flower of British Youth was given, and scattered like chaff into the wind. 750,000 pieces of chaff. Gone. Wasted. For nothing. For a Game of Thrones.
For the strutting tin pot generals and their kings and hangers-on are ever with us, it would appear.
And if remembrance should mean anything it should be a commitment to end this catastrophe that is also ever with us and so we should remember all the men, women and children of Yemen, the Congo, Palestine and anywhere on our fragile Planet where ordinary people struggle in the endless onslaught of terror and violence and death that pursues us as a race like a gaunt and implacable shadow. Let us consider the Caravan of the impoverished heading now towards the American Border seeking hope, against all reason, fleeing the murderous land of Honduras. Seeking solace and charity from the Americans who tremble with fury at their very approach, in the shape of their Presidential Hater. All they want is peace and a chance.
Let us remember the courage of our lost boys. But let us curse the warmongers and haters and the weapons makers.
GIVE PEACE A CHANCE!
First there is the song of WAR that
rises,
Boils, and gurgles in the pumping
blood.
Sing O Argives cross the dusty
plains
Of Troy, a shout of joy-To kill! To kill!
Such glorious joy the blood to
spill.
To read the fear in enemies eyes
As entrails spill like treasure in
the trench.
Sing the songs of bloody ecstasy.
Those razored words will cut the
hardest steel.
Let the axe sing in the morning
bright
And swords ring out like bells
against the shields.
The words are hacked into the hearts
of youth:
It is a fine day on which to die,
And anyway who wants to live
forever?
Ride her hard: Remember to die
young!
Go see the world, and blow the
fucker up!
Fear is for the others: Fear is bad!
Hear them screaming for their
mother’s arms,
And take joy in the tears of cursed
foes.
We are over here, and they are over there.
C’mon boys let’s do the bastards!
Rape as an act of war is not so bad,
And bashing out those babies brains
was good!
Now we rain down arrows from the
moon;
We have contracted Death himself to
our clan,
Though it must be said he’s
mercenary;
He’ll do both sides business for a
song.
And deep within the caverns
underground
Or in the stars of death, spinning
in space;
War is woven in the dreams of hollow
men.
Iliads spill out of crooked looms.
Assassins seek the sons of Omeros
Who sing of warriors as idiots and
fools.
Their fearful verses drown their
battle-crys.
Make burning pyres of all their
vacant flags,
And tear their uniforms to tumbling
rags.
In Memoriam of My Granda:
Private John O'Neil
Highland Light Infantry
In Memoriam of My Granda:
Private John O'Neil
Highland Light Infantry
