Sugar Bullets

The counter fire flanks us.
I'm exploding again.
My comrades lay in heaps
dead like chicken soup. 
Scorched Earth. 
The Saxon shore becomes a killing field. 
No Danish axes this time;
armored cars and bullets. 
Grinning sculls 
I want to be buried
in the sea. 

"Let's try to make it a pyrrhic victory, shall we," the officer calls. 
The phalanx is blown to pieces, 
and the contents of my officer’s corpse open up before me.
I can't hear screams; 
machine gun besides me use up the sound room. 
"Retreating," what a joke. The reminders are screaming
for unconditional. 
No one left to bury. 
A rocket blows me away and 
that's it. 
I close my eyes and find peace; dragon's teeth. 

For a day. 
Dusting my broom while Carnaby Street
change coat. 
Flagging a train for cheap drinks,
the spoonful of sugar is
balling jack while monkey man 
is rolling.