Herman Melville, Redburn
All war is World War,
unless and until the Masters of War agree
to run the business of their bloodlust elsewhere –
where Tinker Bell reigns, or out in the Metaverse.
The hallowed, hollow, hype
of the eleventh hour, day, and month of 1919
amounts to a last gasp, one deep breath, before
the unhuman were unleashed, and sicced upon themselves.
Woman and man, now masters of mechanical death,
reveal Adam and Eve merely to be petty thieves.