Shuba
Bluelighter
The newsreaders face melts into a frown,
all of our faces do, hunched over dinner
face to face with a war....
that frown is the actual news,
that frown is the actual war
The rest is a distant fantasy
of burning atrocity and surreal
Deserts, lizard-eyed men with suits or guns..
so we tried to resume our meal,
the small talk never seemed so small
and nobody could taste the food
that essential frown still gripped our faces
and between each breath, hung a slow
and mournful silence
like an elegy for something we'd all lost
we were like a generation of still born, sitting there...
with war's being born all around us
all of our faces do, hunched over dinner
face to face with a war....
that frown is the actual news,
that frown is the actual war
The rest is a distant fantasy
of burning atrocity and surreal
Deserts, lizard-eyed men with suits or guns..
so we tried to resume our meal,
the small talk never seemed so small
and nobody could taste the food
that essential frown still gripped our faces
and between each breath, hung a slow
and mournful silence
like an elegy for something we'd all lost
we were like a generation of still born, sitting there...
with war's being born all around us
