Prose

The record player cracks white noise ‘neth saxophone utterances that can’t overtake the madness of bombs bellowin’ hellish chants. Brown dust draws down the ceilin’, the tickest of all  rain, that hits the lungs like barbed wire, buildin’ cancerous coughs all around. What a hell-of-a-party!
“ha”, smirks Willard. (one of those lousy laughs rats always mutter)
“Ya find somethin’ humorous?” Clark answer’d, bitter-tongued.
“Well it’s just…” It always takes a moment or two for Willard t’ collect his rainwater thoughts into his verbal gutters, “Those bombs out there are musically accentin’ our record. Maybe this whole damned war is all just some silly accompaniment t’ Glen Miller.”
Grim smiles all ‘round.
Laughter can’t dismantle bomb raids, lest this late in the game (the players just wanna go home, t’ their wife, meatloaf night an’ a border collie named Spike).
“Everthin’ in its rightful place – by the grace of god.”  Lucille said in slight gleam of breathe, exhaled from worried some lips. Trembling.
“What the hell does that mean Lu?”, Clark likes language t’ be straight, a no nonsense guy.
Lucille retorts in tired irritable intonation, “Well Clark I’m a just seein’ some light of god in all this, his holy dominion.”
A nearby blast sends out soundbreakin’ shockwave, momentarily stuckin’ the air from the conversation.
Clark: “Oh jesus Lu don’t give me none of that bullshit.”
Willard: Clark, what the hell’s wrong with a little faith?
Clark: What omnipresent force would ever create, or likewise allow such atrocities? No self-respectin’ god orders air raids!
Lucille: “He don’t, it’s the sins of men whom reject true glory. God can merely laugh an’ shed melancholy tears unto battlefields.” The blasts outside continue their proud accompaniment.
Betty: “Or maybe he don’t give a shit anymore?”  she broke in, unwontedly like a crook demmandin’ somethin’ from an existence that owes no one nothin’.
Grace?
Willard: “I don’t think…”, he trails off again while his face cringes, in an attempt t’ lemon squeeze the thoughts out. “I don’t think we can you know, eh…ever know what god thinks or wants”.
Lucille: “He works in mysterious ways”.
A large bomb in the distance explodes with a round well-enunciated OM… onto a cattle farm.
Clark: If there was a force great enough t’ conjure all of this, surely it would be aware of this filth.
Betty: Ha, damn ya shoot down Lucille for her weak consensus, then find your way t’ yer own!
Machine gun bullets chuckle with laughter, the band cuts back, Frank Ippolito takes a snare heavy drum solo. The two sounds echo each other, though partially different in intent, the results bare similarity.