random word poem by liz snader

War Times by Elizabeth Snader

“Don’t try it,” he said to the boy, in a low, thundering voice.

“One time and you’ll be hooked,” he proclaimed.

His clamoring- they are secret messages laced within his words.

Using his thoughts like the acid within the vile-

Alive, oppressed-suddenly let loose to play-

He gives a kiss, like the French, and goes on his damn way.

Predisposed to addiction-age, society, post-war bullshit-these tell the story.

It’s mine; it’s sad; my mother was nagging me-

I was near breaking- my tiny plea to stop war. I tried.

The city, the music that was playing-

It reminded me of smoking and being with them;

T’was the first day I went the wrong way.

The smell- it was a heaven scent- GANJA!

I would shout out to Chris, “Get the pipe and the green, Pepe!!”

-I used to call him Pepe and I was Maymo-

My best friend, Chris, going over to pump up the sound system.

The music descent-he was playing Skrillex…GROSS…

My heart moved to the beat of the music, nonetheless,

Swaying like a palm tree in the hot air of Hawaii-

I was one with the beat, the bass, the drums-

Everything pulsing through my veins like heroin through an addict’s.

Intense and young, they do not realize they are a puppet.

“SHMIPE!!” What in the hell does that mean?!

“Please evolve-dress your damn age! Stop living

In a van; piety is not worth it.”

“Just—not them”. Those people- giving my regards to them

In the graveyards. The tent-ready and warm-

It sheltered us from the raw pot weather.

“Screw this! I want to read!”

“No! We play Janga now!!”

Both got slapped in the chin- expected of one who talks like that.

The end is near-very, very near-

Pushing people to pray; good luck, man.

Peace out for now, I suppose.