Reihan Salam and John McCain have scored
a six-pack and a fix of krokodil;
the war is over; both men need to feel
the war is never over. They are bored.
The decadent world they hate is drifting toward
. . . well, something. Sense-starved, they’ll steal
right up to death, which is all that’s really real:
irrevocable promise of its own reward.
Outside the window of the Georgetown study
where they melt in leather chairs among the shelves
of Boots and Kagans leans a homeless vet;
war muddied his boots; now his mind is muddy
with several sectarian civil-warring selves.
Someone calls the cops, reports this threat.
Jacob Bacharach 
O/T: http://www.counterpunch.org/2014/06/13/vampire-lovers-in-monotone/
yeardsley’s take on the soundtrack to the jarmusch flick you wrote about a bit back. and if america wants to win any more wars, all they need to do is send McCain’s bluster. nothing can penetrate that.
Now That Communism Is Dead, My Life Feels Empty:
http://ubu.com/ubu/foreman_commie.html
Here’s a war poem that may be relevant
In Ernest
**
I’m finishing this bottle of cerveza,
which makes me play at barroom nihilism,
joking how it rhymes well with Gandesa
when I should toast to sober realism.
**
Some of us, I guess, must do as Berryman,
play a losing hand to end a winning streak.
Some must wind up more like Robert Merriman,
come upon the valley when they’re at their peak.
**
Where’s that cold one, honey? God, I’ve got a thirst
aggravated by what passes for profound:
twentieth left nothing for the twenty-first;
the well ain’t nothing but a hole in the ground.
**
What if I took a bullet? What bell would ring?
No one’s sure that life’s a bridge you gotta blow.
No one’s left who writes about that kind of thing,
that love’s another cold one, before you go.