We've been looking for our commander again,
radio dial spins freely,
as we listen for an empty space,
in all the static.
Flashlights spinning in the dark,
dropped and rolling on a pitching deck,
illuminating halved cones,
in fading yellow light.
Amidst the hollow lobsters,
boiled away to nothing and shipped frozen,
next to the Australian waffles and brown lettuce,
deep in the reefers,
still no sign of him there.
The water's gone sour with bromine,
turning white chlorine green,
dying skin blue,
his face not found in the washers.
Coffins stacked three high, nine deep,
silent in the blackened lights,
waiting for the words,
to bring the sleeper out,
in another day's searching.
What the hell happened to him,
he was just here,
now we have no direction,
save the task of this place called home.
Not making any sense,
bleating alarms in empty spaces,
red warnings singing for no one,
we're all out wondering again,
about what to do with the knives.
Making for our last in trailer parks,
dead end jobs in endless self-abused former shells,
of what we may have once,
been able to achieve,
able to kill,
able to heal.
Give us back our captain,
send us back to where we came from,
at least then we can launch one last strike,
finishing this game at last and sating the need for blood.
We're dying,
bodies riddled with depleted uranium,
stoked chemical furnaces tearing away the flesh,
the commander wielding a fork.
Step closer to this bed,
listen to these last words,
take this light child,
this uniform and these tools,
go and find the commander.
Yurei, 2001 | 
