De Rerum Natura

Culture, Media, Plus ça change motherfuckers, Poetry, War and Politics

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.

3 thoughts on “De Rerum Natura

  1. 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.

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