There are terrorists
That power their guns with bullets
That thump through rib cages
And heart valves
Possessing shafts packed in cartridges
Ignited by hate and zeal
But in a different front of butchery
Self-issued licenses are discharged as ego-stamps
By explicit cowards holding handguns
For there is nothing as impotent
As a flaccid stump that loads on hate
And shoots bullets at unarmed prisoners
After all how absolutely grotesque
Is a ‘small death’ in war (la petite mort)
When all one sees
Is the apocalypse of love