The poet & the General The militant man lives in the ancient skull of Darwinism, growing thicker and duller in time. The moment he was waned from mother’s milk, he learned to piss on the others. He plays with his dick as if it were a killing tool also. In the end, the militant man shrinks like all the breathing creatures no longer in need of air. His mind shrinks to the size of a rusty bullet. His vision shrinks into the grave in the eyebrows of a black bird. The poet, on the other hand, never forgets to bury the dead birds, carefully wiping off the blood from their beaks. Maybe a prayer or two whispered into the delicate ears of the unmoving bodies. The poet goes on pondering the meaning of all these, and hopelessly living in the last ray of hope the militant man promised to kill. :4/16/05 [art: by "The Bloody Sunday Painter"]
