Charles Molloy

There are commands afloat in the air. A whizz seen from far below. Brands that breed blades. Blades that bring blood. Light fire. It cannot be called dust. It comes back. Light fire. It can be heard quite a fair distance away. A growling crowd. Forced launched rockets. Sent to air. Missing files. Taking us down, taking us down, Robert called. A foreign name. Cause. Terror. The trips we had made. Among those overgrown, draughted, well designed holes. Freezing the fuck out of those innocent lads landing. More was seen as we approached the near flat headlands and spied out about beyond the laid out beach. With warheads. The so called danger dagger pulled from soldier's backs. Half of them died crying. A letter had come to say how the drudgery of those days had been overtaken with reminiscences about who their Vietcong fathers were. They found themselves wanting. Talking to animals. Their own thoughts and smells still dwelling among the tanks. Time to stand back and take orders. Formed from a gathering mist. Seen as an option only. Turn it down. We lay near. Asking them to write our own thoughts down. Back to the company writing behind those lines. We would venture ahead. Taking those brand new saucer like creatures away. Trailing them amongst ashes. Leech by leech we came unstuck. We walked by. Tragedy calls for sentences. Grand trials. A rough and tumble male sale. Pouring scenes out. Gathering again. As well. Picked up from whizz. Taking the band free. Lying back. Sighing. Wounded. Firefrozen. Frightened ass. Alive alive oh! I had said inbetween the shots. In my arm a lot. Try and resolve.