Posting this here for future referrence for a friend:

anon SAS 22 Squadron

O’ do you see, o’really’ do you see. maye you think it is not me,

when that thunder rains’ down,

do you really see it, or are blinded by it,

What happens from here?

my nose bleeds,

I can hardly see,

but the thunder keeps on raining down on me!

The smell of sulphur,

the smell of bullets oxide,

the smell of flesh and depleted uranium one never knows,

it is like  breathing aluminium,

mixed with iron fillings,

with phospherous and pure sodium in your  face.

Do they matter?

no to the normal sodier they die.

but for Marines you just try and be at one with it,

and that creates as special unit balance that cannot be understood,

maybe it is that warm you want water,

but that will kill you,

and your mind goes blank!

That is not death but your second wind,

you then accept all elements,

just like in special forces,

one accepts all and everything.
Eventually you walk into the desert we created

then look at charred bodies…

firing depleted uranium is just turns one into a zombie

they are frozen in space and time

but for the few time goes one

one day at a time

and never forget the cruelty of war from the view of a Marine or Special op

You sleep but do you really sleep?

So you go back home…..

see friends and family,,, they are very cheery and say

I lost my baby last week

I say you do not know where I have been

your cry about a child and that loss in my mind is so pathetic and so worn

I reminisce on a few factors and axioms

I resign myself to the fact I hurt more inside at frineds I have lost

and then get angry

at this stupid bitch that had a miscarriage and thinks her world is departed.

anon SAS 22 Squadron

Today was orange. The summer sunshine threw itself over the television stand and into my eyes, and I woke up. I struggled into consciousness and moved my feet around looking for my shoes. I reached up and found my glasses and finally with some help was able to climb into them after rolling out of the deep cushions into a standing position.

I made my way to the door, sat down on the cool metal, of the white and brown chair on the porch, and lit a Seneca menthol, and stared down at the newspaper. Nothing had really changed. The mailbox was slightly ajar, so I knew there was something in it, probably nothing spectacular again, so I let it rest for a moment while I finished being thankful for a good day’s rest.

Waking up at 3pm in Niagara Falls was nothing new to me. I’d been doing it for going on ten years now; sometimes earlier, sometimes later. It had become something of a trouble just to climb stairs, but I knew that was coming next, so with reluctance, I dropped the cigarette on the ground, stamped it out, opened the box, grabbed the mail, and stepped back through both the screen and wooden doors, on Norwood.

As I set the mail on the table, and shuffled through it, I thought back to that Scott Norwood field goal attempt, and wondered if the entire doom and gloom over my life had anything to do with it, and then I shrugged it off.

Today there was an Internet provider offering hosting and Domain Name services in the mail. Better than just the bills that had literally been coming for years, I supposed, and so like all the other junk mail, I left it sitting on the table, and decided to make good on the daily challenge of walking up to my room.

For some reason, I’ve always sort of stopped between the second and third step to just check out the house, and get my balance for the rest of the eight of them.