Mustard Gas

Mustard Gas

creeping death; unaware presence
reaper’s shadow lingers above
the now living; the timer starts
t i c k i n g, r u n n i n g out and out

black shade of all
powerful existence; fate sealed
scratches
the madness starts

blisters, yellow blisters
forming and popping!
skin gets rip ped apart
begun has your.

madness:
scratching off your skin,
yellow o o z i n g out
of your own bag of meat

vision fades:
eyes popping out;
waving good-bye
to your rotten flesh

taste of blood rises
fills the mouth
from air sacks falling apart
one by one

the lungs bleed
the eyes cry out
the skin explodes
the... the... the...

never knew it was there
no symptoms, no warnings.
undetectable fatality
killing as it sees fit

infected? who knows
cure? suicide
safe? never
you? will die.

Wilfred Owen

Dulce Et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.

GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.*

*It is sweet and noble to die for one's country