Whiskey in the Jar

Woolly Days went to see the film Jarhead today.

Jean Baudrillard reckoned the First Gulf war did not exist. And as far as the Swafford lead character played by the ubiquitous Jake Gyllenhaal, Baudrillard was right. Swafford, based on a real person, did not shoot in anger during the 1991 Gulf War. By then, even an elite group such as the Marines were rendered useless by the military power of the air force.

The overriding feeling of the campaign was one of tedium and in fairness to Sam Mendes (whom I believe to be a grossly overrated director based on the evidence of the teenage skewed American Beauty and the interminably dull Road to Perdition) he manages to convey the feeling well without turning the film into an imitative exercise in boredom.


Lack of freedom, foretold

there is no one on the street
Madrid opens its eyes to meet
the interview unfolds with friends of friends
the fishbowl tells a story that never ends
the airline closes from above
how awful will a weekend be without you
the waitress senses something wrong in south true
the doorknock makes us safe and skinless
upset the dorm in mostly sinless
set design, ashamed and faking feelings
rid of pain, the other on the balcony keeling
drink and protecting from chase
royal crown feel too sick and mace
surety of what embroils us both
shitty, fitty, Mitty most
let you laugh and you can leave
cathating arms dealing peeve
the stupid thing that people feel
your friends personal, real deal
virtues, crises, argues, finishing
portraits swapping, mine diminishing
where does friendship come in the race?
in an average lifespan of average pace
freezing vodka bodies and cartoon cryonics
six million answers for close bionics
till the next the line of happiness closes
shits me with a dozen roses
sleep descends on those pretending
till kernel bogie limps life intending
phantoms, monsters, everyone gone
waking corruption of the peeping Tom
experiments that die in the mirror
beauty on the inside of terror
dreaming of moments past beauty
sometimes redeemed of rainlove's booty
liquid solution in postdeath approach
lets accept the ancient religion's coach
massive attack, bacardi and coke Valentine
out the door of whisky Ballentine
Bristol scene is replaced by masque unfrowned
joyous peseta days of the lousy pound
shit shit shit she's coming here
blah blah blah, thats life's fear
the breath of a drunk is toxic cold
the life of death is poisoned mould
bastards run to shower their lover
while injured souls seek insurance cover
phantoms, ghosts and household hosts
feel god in passing dreamlike posts