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I am not suffering, me, from post-traumatic stress disorder.

There is a reason for what we do. Their wives have weaponised

Their wombs. Our problem is our democracy.

We call it mowing the lawn, think of it as a cull

To keep their population down. For this is our land, you see.                                     

Well, that’s how I see it, me, and I’m not one to over-ride

The will of God – nor will I commit the sin of suicide,

Since it would be a crime to reduce the number of those

Fighting on our side. So you can stuff your PTSD

Up your sanctimonious arse. Back at home, my wife demands

That I get out the mower. For all flesh is grass.

I have shot little girls in the head before, and mothers

In the belly. I remember what was taught in class.

You reap what you sow! the righteous angel

Calls out to each pregnant cow, tightening the trigger-finger.

Imagine a serial killer who’s a magnificent poet.

A genocidal composer. An artist who can paint in blood

Without it turning brown whose work is pretty good.

I know a supporter of causes whose art is actually shit.

And casualties who can’t write for toffee. There is an art

To what we do. Inevitably, since there have always

Been skirmishes and sieges, scorched earth and the need

To see things through. Marley put it best you know: Get up,

Stand up. Stand up for your rights. So don’t you lecture me.

I drop the visor down, you see, when I prepare for the slaughter.

But when command rotates our squad and I return from the front,

I am no different to any of you. You should see me with my daughter.

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