by Chris Green | Jun 4, 2006 | Poetry
The walls and ceiling are heat-slicked grease Covering an inadequate white. Scant. The yellow linoleum: now grimy, Now smelling of too much disinfectant And carrying tracks of mildewed grease. Lino.. Roof for a secret, insect world. Cockroaches compete with beetles,...
by Chris Green | Jun 4, 2006 | Poetry
Intercide says it for you! We have Seasonal Products for all “UN”-Seasonal Pests! Racial Problems? Pigs in your Bay? Gotta race on your LAND? Try our handy genocide pack, a selection of SIX plagues, at Off-Peak, Reduction Prices! Gotta Primary Problem?...
by Chris Green | Jun 4, 2006 | Poetry
‘Tis the sound of the feet, my boy, ‘Tis the sound of the marching feet; ‘Tis the sound of the bugle’s joy, ‘Tis the sound of the drummer’s beat, ‘Tis the sound of the fifer’s toy; ‘Tis the sound of the War-Call...
by Chris Green | Jun 4, 2006 | Poetry
DAWN: The grey and wind-blown and dry dust, raised in clouds by the breezy gust; the tank echelon soldiers “cussed” the clinging of the sandy dust: link, link, link, lay-the-track – link, HECK-toring, rattling, metal clink; black, rubber feet...
