:: Article

Support the Troops By Giving Them Posthumous Boners

by Tom Bradley
“Behold this bleeding breast of mine
Gashed with the sacramental sign.
I stanch the blood, the wafer soaks,
High Priestess moistened death invokes.
This Bread I gorge, this Oath I swear
As I enflame myself with prayer.”
–Aleister Crowley, Mass of the Phoenix

Distinguished, decorated, not much longer corporeal Corporal, trenchered out piecemeal in our laps, your bronze whatzit with fig leaf clusters or almond clusters, or whatever, pinned on your thorax, reamed-out, stainless steel-stanted, don’t you fret, my handsome boy.

We promise not to tattle to absentee Pa that you, literally gutless, failed to complete your eighth stop-lossed tour of duty, way over there in Eye-rack, running interference for Halliburton’s pricey mercenaries.

Not from us will ex-pregnant-teen Ma hear that you unmetaphorically crapped out before she could hold a bake sale for E-Bay body armor, your penultimate birthday-boy surprise.

Meanwhile, allow me to hoist the hem of my pastoral cassock, climb on the casket rim, and squat, knickerless, like Greer over her mirror. Pucker up, youngster. Don’t pout. We intend to give you every benefit of the doubt.

Nourished from infancy on meat and sugar, you brat of an illiterate slag, reared in the roar of televised blood and shit and sperm, numbed to your neurons by the fumes of Ma’s kitchenette meth lab, capable of only a bored child’s-eye video-view of the manifested universe, blood addict, insane with black hate-spleen.

You popped a chubby in the middle of a pep rally back in hi-skool a few months ago, got called a homo by jocks, jeered by cheerleaders. You said to yourself (back when you had tongue and lips that were something more than ash primped with jizz-colored mortuary wax), “Gol-dang, I need some o’ that — what-d’-you-call-it — dissy-plin in m’ life. I better enlist, yup-yup-yup.”

Are you retarded enough to reckon that was an actual decision on your part? You were part of the plan all along, Corporal Corpse. Your nation was methodically over-lawyered in preparation for your nativity, divorce was facilitated, your generation well-farmed, incubated in broken homes, corn-fed golem oafs too heart- and brain-damaged to do more than rampage in a proxy war on behalf of that boa-constricting entity which I, your priestess, for self preservation’s sake, even here in this Christian sanctuary, must euphemize, in a whisper, as “the Trans-national Corporatocracy.”

Their pet execs in the recording industry soaked your existence, in-utero onward, with perpetual grunting decibels, drumming monotony, aural steroids. You obediently i-podded it straight into the side of your learning-disabled head while slogging through Fallujah’s scab-clogged gutters.

Just following orders, carrying out YHWH’s immemorial injunction from on high, as we find in today’s reading from the second and third verses of the fifteenth chapter of the First Book of You-Know-Who (with wet thighs I mount the lectern, pry apart the Good Book’s buttocks, and declaim):

Now go and smite Amalek, and utterly destroy
all that they have, and spare them not;
but slay both man and woman, infant and suckling,
ox and sheep, camel and ass.

Such a useful runt. I brim with affection for you, my boy-toy. We need to breed whole fleets of Bradley Urban Assault Vehicles jam-full of lovely, drooly, bristly, backward-bending hard-ons like you.

That other military empire, Grand Assyria, whose ashes you made mud with your shit and blood, had the right idea. High on the ramparts they impaled any teen Ma, any unpatriotic hussy, who sought to procure miscarriage.

Speaking of writhing on a spike, with my sacerdotal labia majora I now squeeze your jar head. Here’s a trigger for you to pull, kissy-boy. I twist your muscled neck to wring a final requiescat stiffy.

Ten-hut. Support them troops.

Tom Bradley‘s latest book, Fission Among The Fanatics, has just been published by the great Spuyten Duyvil (NYC).

First published in 3:AM Magazine: Monday, December 4th, 2006.