Son of a gun (a poem)

Sunday, September 14, 2025

Son of a gun—
half-curse, half-smile,
iron in the teeth,
dust in the veins,
a grin you throw at the world
instead of a prayer.

Wars in the blood,
banners stitched into veins,
marrow marching with ghosts,
every heartbeat a drumbeat,
every joke a live grenade.

No time for leave—
we do it here.
Orders bark,
delay is defeat.
The field is wherever we stand.

Born under fire,
give ’em hell,
push Margo,
baby boy already shouting,
kill those bastards,
hoist the main sail,
keep moving,
every curse a contract,
every shout a covenant.

Sailors in New York,
crystals in their fists,
rub ’em, see what sparks,
smirk through the smoke,
magic flickers, typo never mind,
Yoda-wise, one-liner sharp,
Die Hard truth,
barefoot bleeding,
still laughing while the tower burns.

This is the creed:
curses carry bloodlines,
jokes keep you alive,
quartz in your pocket,
glass in your heels,
fire in your hands.

Push the shards together.
What you get is light.
What you get is survival.
What you get is the laugh
that outlasts the war.