Machine Dream 7. The Martyr

 

They said God's work

was war in the oil fields

when refineries blacked out

the sun, and I killed three

men with one shot to save

democracy. Gog Magog

armored in silicon chips

and cybernetic efficiency

squashed the child I was

to fight in the sand

when the enemy retreated

down that road of burned

out tanks and human flesh.

 

Back home, a war hero, I

couldn't even find work,

so I slept on my dad's couch.

And I cried for days when Gog's

Jack‑booted goons stormed

Waco and burned those children

alive. From that sacrifice

of innocents I rose

like a phoenix whose

own blood is vengeance.

 

I drove down that highway

of the black sun in Arizona

with the plan hot

in my head, and the end

of Gog fueling the engine.

Eye for an eye, rotten

tooth versus the new teeth

of revolution that will

rip from the belly

of Gog's whore

the money lenders

and bankers who profane

freedom's temple

and in whose name I killed

to keep clean.

 

When the van ripped Gog's

belly like a ten‑bit whore,

blood wiped out blood,

revenge wrought reward.

 

Let them broadcast

my death to the world,

if they dare, cowards

with the blood of children

on their own hands.

Let them sell

advertising for

Wall Street

and Comet cleanser.

I am pure now,

I am my soul's

master, captain of fate.

 

The tally sheet of the just

is not who you kill

but how justly you kill.

There's no rebirth

without pain, no peace

but what's bought

at the end of a gun.

If you want pity,

don't look at me.

I'm the prodigal son,

come home again to clean

the stables and set

the account books right.