Lore - Poem by Charles Malcolm
Love is gore.
A product, not an assailant
like a dog from hell.
Love is repulsive
and mistaken for butterflies
by the blind.
A man's head resting in the sand.
A pile of guts on the snows of Bastogne
or stretched across the wire at Khe Sanh.
The stunned, glassy eyes
of a woman with a chubby lower lip
or the pale, thousand-yard stare
of a man home early from assignment.
Blood and guts.
Innards, pulled outward.
Lies coming down from command.
The peculiar sense to obey them.
We all fight.
Every prick and every whore.
We all fight
like the dogs from hell
for a blinding glimpse of the gore.
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