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Lyrics
the smash
hunkered down and white-eyed in the tribe's fantastic bunker: the
Cabinet, ice cubes rattling in their whiskey. map of battle shifts like a
rubix. they watch it twist, follow the color-coded icons, breathe when
some persist, gasp when some are gone, witness the war map
erase--think about their grandkids. throned behind his monolith
smoking a carcinogen: the general. backlit with halogen like a cut-out in
the snow (he blows smoke shaped like soft-lead rounds that mushroom
when they maim.) his features do not change. "have another drink," he
urges, "get it while it bites. just imagine what the cost will be for liquor
when this fight is over." no one says a word. just the clinking of his
chest, a mobile made of 50 medals putting all his men to rest. "you've
got me to thank. you're shielded from the weather sitting in a leather
chair with a built-in ash tray. you're in a chartreuse tux, and nothing can
scuff it up.
no foes, no match. that's life after the smash."
on the map digits drop, movement stops, yellow flops and turns to red.
a small green spot just crawls along leaving black trails in its stead.
static screens, speakers steam, a grid says "criticalcriticalcriticalcritical"
and hisssssss
"gentlemen, don't you doubt a thing" in competition with the sirens, his
voice is getting rough. he pulls his men up by the scruff. "i just knew this
day would come. it saw the scum where we were blind --i'm sure, in
time, our tank will rid us of all our traiters. it may be slow in swamps,
its tracks may slip on wet grass, and in the desert it must rest to keep
its brain from getting hot, but i assure you, from now on: we win the
wars whether we like it or not."
question marks pinch every nerve in the room. the rubix map is bland,
just a green bleep inching, merciless, across the land
towards a handful of lionhead icons.
(but aren't
we the lionheads?)
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