Stand together,
form a brotherhood,
get drunk on blood.
Kill the others,
those like us,
those that don't fit in.
The union of loneliness,
that's understood.
Dance Floor
What will happen later.
The women in evening gowns
traipse about languidly -
around us.
We move easily, too, over
delicate subjects of conversation,
spinning through the solar system
and carefully avoiding the
meteors and conflagrations which
occasionally arise.
You remark that my eyes look
serious, as I joke that
I've sent millions to their
death.
What will happen later.
Odyssey
Times for reflection are rare,
when you can just sit back and
forget about how much you hate
being a small fish in a big ocean.
That's what I love about flying,
when my co-pilot's back in the
mess getting up some grub and
coffee (probably wasting his
time chatting up one of women
in engineering, too), and I
can just kick back and look
out into the infinity and imagine
the stars and nebula and planets
forming. They haven't been
molded or determined yet, unlike us,
there's still hope there that
maybe it won't turn out ruined.
Of course, I don't drift too
far -- can't. I've got re-rebuilt
control panels and loose wiring in
the cabin, not to mention the
patches and char marks from a hundred
different wars on the hull to
remind me who we are.
