The turning away

Squatting down in the
     ruins of houses, grit
 marked by dainty tracks
  of birds, beetles,
           the fetid rivers
        lapping at the edges
   of their sandals, this
       is their highest form
     of personal
             worth,
  this barbaric cesspool of a place,
      where empty shells of
            old dwellings are
         used as toilets by
   the lofty, enlightened, sanctified
          inhabitants.

   this chattering , stinking mass
        fucking the ground with their
             empty foreheads,
tapping their swirling bunghole rugs
         pretending pious
 acting rapist
           grasping,
             for the world that they only
        accuse of corruption, pausing
                   every hateful declaration
                                     long enough to suckle from
the people of the west who
                they call devils and demons,
                    cashing their checks and nose
 to the air, living freely in the
             elegant cities they have
                    defiled,
               who are they to judge...anyone?

     The next war should not be a war at all..
           next war is a turning away of
               all of us, from
 these turd apostles, leaving them
            throwing them
     to themselves
           all that we do
                is nothing,
                  no news
no food, no help
          let those who can
              stand up on their hind legs
                 and silence these unholy excrements
or watch their own children turn
      into ammunition
            piled,exhausted
 or living skeletons condemned
        by unreason
              to starve, to be
  disconnected forever to rape and kill
            each other in the
         ruined dark desert ,

    Every bridge broken,
               every attempt to come here
                    met with a firm unwavering hand
         to the face, if need be.
they can wage their holy war
        against themselves
             and if they starve, burn,
                      or fall ill
     of an easy plague
            which we refuse to cure
 so much the better,
                   so little the loss
                           so inevitable that the
           stupid and angry be mocked
                       and then forgotten