There's a war on out there and I agree.
And somewhere bombs are falling and men are dying
And it's probably my fault or so I'm told
And I have to agree.

I am used to war.
War is an old friend.
Part of living, I tell myself.
We've never been without it.
I walk around my garden watching the pitched battles.
Some enemies take their time like the saguaro
Poisoning its host, once it's grown strong enough,
Like a kid murdering its mother.

So many secret poisons incubated slowly,
So much manufacturing of substances which kill.
So many sharp unseen spines to pierce the flesh.

Along with the killers come the comedians
Of course. shaggy soldier and stiff cock
And that idiot sticky willy, clinging to my legs
Like a rejected lover pleading for another day.
Worst are the corpse flowers with their stink of death
Attracting flies like six foot rotting penises.
Of course they're all at it in their own devious
Little ways - growing a bit faster
Cutting out the light, harboring the enemy
To wait for the moment to kill,
And getting turned on by the fight
And the light.

Worst of all is my cat's claw.

I've cut her heart out a hundred times
Butchered her, sliced up her children,
Dragged them from their beds.
Pretty yellow flowers, yes, in springtime,
But only for a little while,
Then showers of dirty brown seed pods
Scattered ready to poison the unwary.
Her claws, like a pirate's hook, hidden
Until the moment's right
And your back is turned,
Before she sinks her tendrils into your neck.

There's always a war on out there as well,
Men with guns and murder in their hearts.
It's not pretty but it all started in the garden.
There's no quarter given and I'll give none.
The dead lie shriveled and browning in the sun.
I have to whip the bastards into shape,
Cut 'em all down to size, keep them in control
Dressed in their green camouflage.
But to no avail. Nothing stops them.
Too much procreation is their problem,
Too much sex and licence.
Always trying to fuck themselves and each other.
Pushing out pollen and poisoning the air.
And its ugly. People are dying.
Bombs are falling and my cat's claw is the worst.
And it's all my fault, I think .
I can't tell the difference any more.
There's so much beauty in the world,
So much wild ecstasy, so much competition,
So many blossoms hanging there, luring the unwary
So many perfumes bewitching the senses
And quietening the soul.