It was those nights,
driving down the track
in the back of a pick-up,
blatting at eyes in the bush
with an AK-47, high on weed
and whiskey.
Those nights back at the camp,
dub dancing to boosted speakers,
world poured through bamboo walls,
edge of the sky licked by fire,
women coming and going
at the water hole.
One of those nights my voice broke,
I carved the cause in my flesh,
took a women from her work,
killed a man looking into his eyes,
laughed as he slumped with a whimper
not a cry.
It was on those nights of thunder and hope,
bullets skidding in mud, truck bed bouncing
over ruts, wet leaves slapping my face,
not these plush mahogany nights
of policy, compromise and utility,
that I felt free.
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