For Shame, Ares

"They don't talk about the glory of killing for the revolution."

of the Tower
shot a flaming arrow from
her window, and it
circled 'round
the spinning earth,

waiting for the time
the fire
could at last begin.

Diana's arrow
blazed the paths for war-torn flux.

Look and see:

'Windswept footsteps!
Ho, now!
Blast the nighthorn out,
and hence dispel the terror--

the violent darkness.


O vile assassin
hidden in the ebon shadow's shade,
come out; come out
and I'll hear your grievances.

I swear, it will be…uhh…ugh…'

So once upon
an eternity ago,
a small spark gave birth to wrath,
and the battle is won.

Now lo, the war begins,
and Diana's fletching, flaming arrow's fire falls to earth--
knick-knack, paddy-whack, give
the dogs of war a bone.

Let's play outside like kids:
who has the best toys
for the hunting game Diana plays?

Pick me!
Pick me!

Heroic imagery takes a nosedive,
surrounded as it is by the sweltering heat
of boys and men who have to sleep on abandoned tables
and eat on their deathbeds;

it pulls itself back up every time though, civil war after uncivil war.

The Huntress's heroes aren't only the bravest of men;
She knows there's oil everywhere
for her timeless arrow's fire. Men in black coats--the color of the collar doesn't matter--
and men in white coats all catch her fire eventually, or they burn.

All along the watchtower, all
across the universe,
I can see her fires burn, because
peace sells,
but she's not buying--she knows
you can't put a price on peace because money only fuels the fire.

At her insistence,
we forge our crucifixes and plowshares
into something a little sharper, something with more penetrating
insight than a musty, antiquated book.

Books are out of date anyway.
We're a culture built so proud
on the sights and sounds
of mushroom clouds--
we so eagerly grew them to defend

There's no thrill in
only in the

Viva la revolucion!
Viva la revolucion!
Viva la revolucion!

No, I say! I want no more of this war! NO MORE!

Observe now the skies,
eternally ablaze.