Old Spice & Cordite

I think sometimes, War is just a deep lounge,

a gentlemen’s lounge: fulsome leather couches

old-fashioneds, a fog of leonine cigar smoke

No admission to the clubhouse for such as me

Treading past, I hear glasses break, balls ricochet

I hear baritones and basses sharpen their points

Once in a while a man tumbles out the swinging door

holding his paw out—so crushed; stains on white cuffs

or drunk, such a dizzied head heat-seeking a solace lap

The battlefield is like the frontier, like Conrad’s heartbeats

unmapped territory, so many stenches to classify, so many

bottles to uncork and fling, lit matches writhing within