The Last of the
Douchebag Warriors
The Last of the Douchebag Warriors
Came crawling over the mountain
Trailing Hollyhock, Sweet William, Lily-of-the-Valley,
Mesmerized by the sweet blowing of our promises.

His mother had raised him to be right, wistful;
She had filled him with the ache of honor;
Taught him to be frank, funny,
Unafraid of the four fates, or of not dying,
Or of you.

I want to lie with you, my God
Do I want to lie with you,
My lips lost under your heart.
My nights wound under your dreams,
Wanting to disappear,
Amid the last of last summer's aluminum stars,
Leaning down around the fields.

The Douchebag Warrior was moved by his mother
To join the pilgrims plying the shores
Of the River Jordan.
There, he was told, he would find a bleeding penitent
Waiting for him at the Café Golgotha
Waiting to share a vision of dumb divinity.
He was also told that despite his hopes
He would not be able to fulfill his simple mission.
He was also convinced that not dying was not
All it was cracked up to be.

I have to tell you there is something about your thighs,
There where they join the rest of you:
There is something in you touching you in the dark
That will not translate into words,
They cannot bear our words
Something that will not leave me alone.

The Douchebag Warrior, they tell us,
Forgot his orders, was swept from the field,
Ended up in a saintly brothel.
It came to pass, they tell us,
Through no fault of his own,
That he suffered.
It was that, and the dry voice of prophecy
And the cries of the unwashed angels,
That finally did him in, turned him
to dry and brittle thunder.
That, and his strange hard need
To be humbled, loved,
broken by the red giants.

If you leave me, I will tell them all:
That you were profoundly moved by my innocence;
That you were swept away by my series of confessions,
The wonder of my words,
Never even doubting
My lies...
          ...If you leave me,
I will tell them what they said
About our mothers, claiming they were
Directly descended from the Lord of Pain,
Sent for in a thousand white afternoons of regret,
Nursed by the bitter green father of Chance
Arising out of singular bloated knowledge of the bird of tomorrow.

The Douchebag Warrior was one of the last to go,
Leading the final battle at Mount Venus:
"A Mopping Up Operation" the newspapers called it.
It brought down the house.
He expired, we are told,
Riddled with doubt or madness (or both),
Fate's Babe striking out in the arms
Of the dying Jew.

He died in peace,
But before he went,
He asked me
To ask you
If you would
Let me please have my will
Of you:
That was his last request.
To break you into the round orbs of regret
The one that pulls the hot dark out of us.

You do believe me, don't you?
You will do what I will, won't you?

--- Lloyd Carpenter Pettus
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