Rohypnol Fight Club [Today's News Poem, January 26, 2011]
How will we war with no shrapnel to season our bloodiest Marys?
Gunpowder lines on the toilet are wimpy and cordite's last season.
Top what preceded this fashion—imbibe all the newest creations:
Salt for your peter, a clot in your arteries—stroke to the finish.
Addle the placid, obstruct what was clear and get higher than sorties
Bombing the stones into dance-floors and guzzle your tankards of tonic.
Roll all those bills to inhale all that fragrance—those fractions of warheads—
Dance to the sound of machine-guns in seizures of puncture and leaking.
Spike in the drink adds the pleasure of virgins and burns like a monarch:
Mickey, a roofie, a body to ravish then ditch in a dumpster.
"“I cannot say it strongly enough: I will not support any measures that stress our forces and jeopardize the lives of our men and women in uniform,” Mr. McKeon said in an opening statement that followed up on a letter to Defense Secretary Robert M. Gates urging him not to stop work on the Marines’ $14.4. billion Expeditionary Fighting Vehicle, a combined landing craft and tank for amphibious assaults that Mr. Gates canceled this month."
—ELISABETH BUMILLER and THOM SHANKER, The New York Times, January 26, 2011
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