Fuck Knows
A Simple Fucking Error
War is hell
Locked down in this fucking fox-hole.
Ten ratscrotum faces look upon me.
My filthy corpse, still living.
Back home, it’s easy to sip coffee and talk.
About dying with honour.
When there are ten nutters with rifles.
Honour doesn’t exist, Mate.
Never has. It’s fucking nowhere.
Dying for honour is like dying for a noun.
Hot fucking air out of someone’s gob.
I only thought about her.
Talk about God, Mate.
My wife was God.
Love unfiltered, unending.
No space for anything else.
Her warm body and hand on my chest.
I cried like a little bastard.
They thought I was terrified.
But, I felt no fear. Only love for them all.
They must have wives and families too.
What the FUCK were we doing here?
I realised the absurdity of the situation.
We were all in together.
Through our own psychosis.
Like waking up from a fucking acid trip.
I laughed like a nitrous whore.
They must have thought I was a proper mad bastard.
Randle Mcmurphy, the last soul left standing.
They were good soldiers.
Gave me cigarettes, food, and water.
Cleanest and best I’d had in months.
I was three days without water at that point.
And fighting for five whole days. No food, no sleep.
People spend fucking years looking for God.
But in one moment at the peak of battle.
No meditating. Only fighting.
So exhausted that I couldn’t think anymore.
Mind stopped.
I was dead, but everything carried on.
No pain, no suffering, no fucking conflict.
Nothing was wrong, and it didn’t have the capacity to be so.
People search for God their whole lives, outside or inside.
They don’t realise that God is all there is.
All the pain, the suffering, the conflict.
Just a cognitive mistake.
A simple fucking error.
An idea that’s gotten out of control. That’s all.
They tortured me. They had to. They were good soldiers.
But I rested first. Three days. Sleep. Clean Bed.
I thought about her constantly.
But the more comfortable I became.
The more her face faded into darkness.
My mind kicked back in like a generator after a power cut.
The lights come on, and everyone is relieved.
I was relieved too, in a way.
An addict back on the gear after tasting sobriety.
Then they started on me.
Four times a week for the first year.
Twice a week for the second.
Third-year they left me alone.
By then, I’d told them everything I’d ever learned about anything.
You don’t know what that’s like.
You want to be a rock.
But then it starts.
They have been perfecting it for hundreds of years.
I held out a while. But not that long. They were too good.
God left the building, and I met the Devil.
I’ve met them both in their fullest capacity, and you know what?
I reckon they’re the same fucking person.
