Happiness is a Warm Gun
To work the machine gun you must caress it.
You have to hold it close & whisper it prayers.
Tell it you love the way it clicks & whirs,
how an almost-imperceptible smoke will curl out of its muzzle.
Try to cuddle up to it in bed for your protection:
This is the true meaning of safe sex,
of being able to do exactly what it says. Pick a target
& fray its edges with the rat-a-tat-tat of its many-chambered song.
You’ve been invited to a symphony of armaments,
to a harmony of the trigger & the happiness of your hold.
Once you were lonely; now a ring of bullet-holes
connects your flat to the one belonging to your neighbors under siege.
Now the borders have fallen & all you have to do
is step into the fray, machine-gun swaying
as you calculate what’s spent & the rounds you keep.
Enter into marriage, just you & your gun,
just the security of knowing this moment’s forever & may be your last,
& don’t listen to the voices on the megaphone
telling you you’re wrong & no good can come of this:
it’s just a question of you & your gun & the metallic taste on your tongue.
Tomorrow, you can put down your arms;
but today, you’re merrily together in your unholy aims.
From subTerrain #68