Battle Lines

Battle Lines


by Carole Satyamurti

They wear the same boots,
the same touching hair-cuts,
they're smiles on the News,
digits on print-out,
our brave boys;
names, ranks and numbers, action men
splitting the night
with mind-trash noise.

Below them, the lights are
the Fourth of July,
the screen shows cursors falling,
converging
on other brave men -
abstract enemies with blanks for faces.
The mission's to smash them
and smash them again.

Each leader works at poses,
inflections:
strong on screen,
bluff on the air-waves,
caring friend.
Each of them bathes
in his own propaganda;
his currency's lives,
and he's plenty to spend.

It's no use praying for some
clean ending,
the God of the cross, of the star,
of the crescent
is deaf and blind.
The fall-back, an echo of voices
from childhood:
Don't cry big boys. Never mind.

Posted over on Guardian, UK