I want to be here. In the dirt, the blood-soaked dirt, holding the man in the foreground tight against my body, my finger probing the bullet hole in his face, kissing his torn, bloody lips.
Then I slither to other men, some alive, some dead, until I find one wounded, near death, trembling in fear, then pain as I slide my hand inside the gaping hole in his belly, and rip out his guts, shoving the wet, bloody mess into my mouth.
His buddy lies face down, convulsing, as I lick his fatigues, sniffing at the shit he has evacuated.
I reach the man with the sweat-soaked torso, still firing at the enemy, unaware that I am his enemy, as I slit his throat, and drink from the exposed windpipe.
I slither from body to body, biting, chewing, licking, sucking, fucking, luxuriating in the mass of American meat. Insatiable, I don’t see the enemy approach until their weapons rip me apart and I become their slab of beef.