Foxholes

low, low, low
muddy and drifting
slowly along the soil
like cigarette smoke and mustard gas
all the world is,
is variations of brown and gray,
clumpy clay and gunpowder
black steel barrels
and whiskers
there is no such thing as forever
spend all your time getting here
for the matinee and then you’re dead
so damn long
raspy rattle
bloody phleghm
it ends badly
in the foxhole
there is no God
he’s a picture in a magazine
in a dentist’s office
a thousand miles away
we’re a clump of clay
and blood in a night
of endless dying suns