I put on my old boots today
In the leather the sands of the desert ground in deep
I close my eyes and sigh as the taste
Brings back memories I'd rather not keep

Gunmetal black across my back
The crash of thunder, so I thought
But when the sky did not turn black
And weep with the tears that the thunder had wrought

And the sirens screamed
And they still invade dreams
And I fell to my knees
As I watched my friend bleed
On the scorching concrete

I became someone else
My family saw right away
But I've never told them
What happened that day

I keep it locked in
A payment for past sins
As I try to begin
Feeling normal again
But who knows when

Or if

Or how

To forget

I. Parade Square

I can still feel the blisters from the hotplate ground,
the tar off my marred body,
imagine my acid sweat coercing my eyes
to burn with an perverse, masochistic
fire for this
torture
my tongue could never profess.
Running or sprinting blind, and
then a rumble above, force open my eyes to
watch the undercarriage of the SQ A380
hang low like a
ladder.

II. Swimming Pool

Usually we swim here,
or get cooked by the sun,
but there was once we pumped eighty
because the FT was bored and wanted to go
home,
early.

III. Cookhouse

Pre-dawn,
we sit down half-asleep,
milo in hand,
a lump of oily I-don’t-quite-know-what on my plate.
Every table a section-full of once-boys
taking a glimpse at the outside world through flat rectangular
window panes that hang from the ceiling.
At 0600, Channel News Asia plays the National Anthem,
and I wonder why we don’t sing it
anymore.

IV. Range

It is going on two months in this foreign land
Two months of having not shot a single picture

A single snug trigger-click, snap-shot
Burst of colour – bang! – picture

Tangy black three-point-eight-two kilos that
Hang off me like a corpse-like appendage

Two months of wading through picturesque scenery
Lilac cirrus sky, or the sleeping shadows of silhouetted trees

And no chance to shoot any photos
But the picture of simulated ******

As I point and pull, hear the
Trigger-click of my camera go

bang.

V. Grenade Ground

When I picked up the little
inconspicuous
olive thing, and placed it in the pouch
next to my left breast, beside my
heart,
I couldn’t help but ponder
if that was how the Bali
bombers
felt like, moments before they
died.

VI. Beyond the Sphinx bridge

This is another world;
a world filled with so many dark
memories
I cannot write about it.
I would have saved you from drowning in your
waterlogged grave, except
I was drowning
myself.

On the long ride back
to camp,
I gazed into the distant twilight, thinking,
we may sit in the
same
tonner, but in actuality
we all find our own roads
home.

VII. Coy Line

When I shower I close my eyes,
feel the slow trickle of water from
the broken showerhead, and
imagine myself in a hotel villa, or
one of those luxury hotsprings.

When the lights go off I lie back,
gaze out at the orange floodlight that
shines through the panes,
illuminates my teary face,
darkens my world
to a quiet, uneasy
sleep.

VIII. Ferry Terminal

Every book-out
I let the man scan my card,
puff up my shoulders
and catwalk down the dock
with a sense of newfound authority.
I’m a civilian now.

Sit and hear the low rumble of the ferry
get louder and
louder
like a plane on the verge of taking off;
like a soul on the verge of
escape.

No Army,
Can Stop An Idea,

No Bullet,
Can Stop An Idea,

No One Can Stop An Idea,
Why, Why,

Because an idea is not a person,
it is not a thing that can be shot,
or burned,
or tortured.

No.
An Idea Is A Belief.
It Is a Catalyst.
It Is everything and nothing at all at once.

An idea can be created by one person,
but shared and given power by all.

Thus....

No Army
Can Stop An Idea.

It used to be that
We couldn’t go a day
Without talking.
Now I’m joining the army
So that I can die
With a rifle in my hand
For something I don’t understand.

As the world is shaking beneath my feet like the rumbling crunch of a volcano, my eyes glaze over.
The fright of death is more crippling to me, and more a presence in my soul than my own beating heart.
Stuck frozen as if all the time of the Earth had stopped to watch for itself.
The bellowing cries of plea from my brothers, fallen to the ground.
The grip I have of reality is fast overwhelmed by the chaos of the dying.
My thoughts trembling in my mind as the very air around me purges sense from my bones.
I fall.
Upward looking to the dark greyness that’s become the mid day sky.
A sky alive with fire and smoke, and all manner of flying things.
Silence encompasses me for the first time in what seems like a lifetime.
I breathe, breathe as though every breath is a symphony requiring tireless thought.
My purposeful pause between each cycle, I listen to the drum of my heart bursting through my chest and ears.
I hear the dying. I hear the crying.
Taunting clatter and pounding overhead condemning us to the mud beneath.
Still and broken I lie.
I hear the dying. I hear the crying.
A wave of force ripples to my side nudging me, burning my body.
Scattered parts of wood and ash, bone and rock sprinkle awash down on my face.
Choking, my stomach flutters.
I hear the dying. I hear the crying.
My eyes open with questionable recognise.
My bedroom ceiling, calm and content.
My wife’s hand upon my chest, a question of soft remorse to my wellness.
My brothers, where are you?
I hear the dying. I hear the crying.

21 guns salutes this army heart of mine.
A soldier, fighting to stay alive.
Penetrating at all angles with hope to survive.
Why won't you love me and let this heart thrive?

21 guns salute this army heart of mine.
Succumbing to a love it will never know,
Jumping in front of bullets because it seems right,
Being a martyr seems better than being alone.

21 guns salute this army heart of mine.
Made from titanium woven in steel.
Strong enough to face any threat that comes near.
But weak for the way that you make me feel.

21 guns salute this army heart of mine.
21 shots for you and me.
21 reasons I love you more.
Even if it results in the death of me.

Army crawl through dirt
We are dodging the missiles
Oh no! I've been hit!
Cigarette burns, hole in my
skirt. Oh what a childhood!

Here we are,
the mighty army of misfits
gathered together
and even though the threat of
torrential downpour looms over us,
the drizzle doesn't seem to matter.
We sing and dance,
chant poetry as if
it's a religious hymn.
This small voice in me --
withered and stripped down --
is no longer so.
With the voice of my army
we can crumble the mountains
that stand in our way,
part the oceans
that keep us apart.
Here we are,
the mighty army of misfits,
and we will not leave
without a fight.