Automatic

Full auto feels like god almighty;

nothing satisfies fanatics

as much as ripping off

a thirty shot load 

on full automatic.

Rounds spitting out the barrel,

hot brass ejecting out the side,

the stink of cordite gasses

more enticing than the spicy scent

of virgin asses.

The rapid recoil of the rifle butt,

a staccato slapping faster

than a rabbit fucks.

And when the magazine is spent,

the would be warrior is impotent,

he masks himself in verses

defiled into vile curses.

A false allegiance to flag and word,

his true credo, a fervent hate,

his climax, a weapon's ejaculate.

His seed spewed on the world

to propagate more generations

who find their ecstasy behind a trigger.