It so happens I love to shoot by Oscar Lilley

It so happens I love to shoot.
And it happens that when I walk

onto the gun range,
the smell of gun powder

makes me break into a sinister smile.

The only thing I want

is to lie still as a predator.
The only thing I want

is my target to fall by my hand.

It so happens that I am sick of philosophical cry-babies

who lament of their feet and nails
and hair, and even their own shadows.
It so happens I love being a man.

It would be marvelous
to terrify those

that would do us harm.
Rather I must be sated

with this plastic target.

It would be great
to go through them

with fixed bayonet,
letting out yells

while loosing meat from bone.

I don’t want so much misery
for those under thumbs of petty tyrants.
Woman and child trembling

under the yoke of the mullahs.

Now, that olive-drab target
is animated as my hated foe.
Oh, how he taunts me.
He won’t be laughing

when the hammer falls.

I am pushed into certain corners within.
Peaceful existence lost with the Paternal Twins,

slights are never forgotten.
I dwell now in the dark, damp,
unfinished basement of my mind,

swirling Pendleton in a Dixie cup.

There are silhouetted targets mocking me,
but I have yet to put my lead dart

in the deadliest of chambers.
Each martyr-maker bears the mark of S or D,
effigies of two fallen in battles past.


Those targets are laughing at me,

but they shouldn’t.

Soon they shall weep

from shame and terror.


I walk by,

awaiting my next turn

on the firing line.

I stroll along serenely,

with my measured rage,
forgetting nothing.

It so happens I love to shoot.

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