Cheers To Suicide! Where's My Martini?

Spotted this in the paper.

Here's to monday mourning the honey suckled dew
tattered kites sheepishly fighting floating o'er
green hills rolling ether
and ether cloggin the brain and sogging
numbed, dulled, misty, muted ...
greyed ...
swayed in a bouyant vacuum
Void and Nulled.

Here's to saluting the ashes of Amurken flags.
Here's to marching the blitzkrieg bop.
Here's to hands dropped and swinging (9 front 6 rear)
fingers curled torpor laugh.

Here's to the missing milk of fumescent flowers,
the keystoned soul holding ancient towers,
Hell, everybody knows
everybody knows
where this train ends.

Slinking slinking back from shadowed white walls
hallowed halls of marble
(not the altars of innocence).

The inexperienced have nothing to offer.
And there's no qwelling a phantom with fears
swelling tears wetting no flesh
nor the tangential tangled mesh of a lover's hair.

Sgt Thomas J Strickland of the 108th Armor Regiment of the US National Guard was killed in Iraq on August 15. He was also the author of a weblog where he detailed his experiences and published poetry. "What I'm after," he wrote, "is an outlet, an escape, a hiding place for the me that takes a back seat when I put on my uniform."