Source: Caitlin Johnstone, Rogue Journalist
by Caitlin Johnstone
“He hung up a sign that said Secretary of War, / snapped a picture for the socials, shut the door, / took a swig of Jameson straight from the bottle, / then sat down and fondled the revolver in his desk drawer / like a little boy playing with his penis. / Visions of cruise missiles danced through his head, / aircraft carriers and nuclear submarines / and tiny middle eastern bodies blown to bits by glorious inventory. / Mushroom clouds flashed in his eyes / as he caressed the trigger with an index finger. / ‘They call me the Secretary of War,’ he said. ‘They call me the Secretary of War.’ / He did not feel the robins in his chest / or hear the red-winged blackbirds trilling in his hair. / The electricity of the flesh was a stranger to him. / Exuberance was a deadbeat dad who never called.” (09/06/25)
https://caitlinjohnstone.com.au/2025/09/06/secretary-of-war/