FOR GOD OR FOR SYRIA

High in the clouds

High in the clouds

the hard earth beneath finds a way to steal my smile —

a perfect dry run for the crash —

I fall long before I start to fall.

I fall before I start to fall

hastening the blood and tears

skipping the judgment

as the sentence is sure —

tears won’t cry themselves.

Tears won’t cry themselves

you won’t break until you help them snap your soul

until you whet tongues thirsty for applause

or silence.

Tongues thirsty for applause or silence

lap life from your puddle

retreat (in)to shallow mouths

come up dry for more

until you can give no more.

Until you can give no more

bleed

lie down and die

slow

or take some along in grand style

with assurances of sexy hashtags:

say it was for god or Syria.

Say it was for god or Syria

and let the ants all lose their way to sense

let them go round in (news) circles

until they die by repetition.

Until they die by repetition

moving in circles around truth

too exhausted to change route

marinate in your blood

you’re tastier that way.

You’re tastier that way

without the complications of nuance

created by condiments

They shouldn’t argue over flavours

blood is sufficient.

Blood is sufficient

and familiar

everyone can describe its metallic taste —

that is why you must be still

and marinate in blood.

Be still and marinate in blood-

yours and maybe that of others

But don’t complicate it

Say before it spills:

For god or for Syria