1/26/2005

entry: #030:: MY OWN PRIVATE BASRA


damn...
This New World Order...
Muted-shades of violence...
Every-hue...

Executions in the street...
And tsunami's of biblical proportions...
The pitter-patter...
Of insatiable lust...
Fuck...
Throw in camera-porn-for-the-Privates-and-their-Generals...
And it's just another day at the office, really...

Sepia S&M-kicks...
For bored One Hour Photo geeks...
Tie me up...
Shake me down...
Prison-bitch slap-and-tickle...
> Now a humiliating affair >

Abu Ghraib...
Come on down, honey...

CAMP-X-RAY, GUANTANAMO...

Guantanamo
c.bbc.co.uk

ONE-TOUGH-SON-OF-A-BITCH...

Shatters the soul into a million pieces...
Suicide Stretch...
Long and Lonely...
Sweet Jesus...
Solace at the end of a noose...

BASRA'S BREADBASKET CAMP...
The latest...

22 photographs...

CAPTION: Iraqi trussed in cargo netting...
Assumes fetal position...
While soldier surfs his backbone...
Pinning his head to the ground with a stick...
So macho...
So Great White Hunter...
Pearly-whites...
And hard-on to boot...

Testosterone City...
Jesus...
Just another way for these freaks to get their kicks...

I dream of stormy oceans...
Perhaps land itself...
Fleets of ferries...
Waiting in the docks...
Pre-and-post-Cold-War,relics...
Age of Terror...
Whatever the hell you wanna call it...

A lifejacket...
A human hand...
The spine of a withered tree...
Tears-spilled-from-a-child...
Orphaned...
In a cradle of exotic graves...

A world with little restraint...
Geneva-Code-Gone-Haywire...
Military...
Civilian...
Does it really really matter in the end?

Code Orange...
Well...
It's shifting into focus...
Like-a-hazy-Fourth-of-July...
Pretty fireworks...
All red, white and blue...

Bigger..
Bolder...
Brighter...
Than you could ever imagine...
In vainglorious...
Webcam fucking technicolor...


# transmission ends #

































































1 comment:

josh said...

Carnal juices flow from greedy dicks. Brainsmoke after bombs. Red stones drunk with blood. Hugs of spiders. Desert wind whistles through dry skulls. Cry baby cry. But dust shall claim the victories. And flags would go the dogs one day. Let's sing for the silent mothers, archangel!