Comrades In Arms

Natasha, in sunglasses at night, exhaled
a Kremlinesque fog, blowing smoke
up our asses during the interrogation.

Hungry and svelte with pink felt tips
that could Chekov any comrade's box,
she was a he of a KGB conspiracy theory
and I was paranoid they were all
out to get me.

Their predator drones hovered above
targeting my uvula with long-range
silicone scud missiles lubricated
in lukewarm, mercurial deceptions

Once a flowerchild of the Sixties, my soil
was now heir to their scorched earth
policies of salting wombs with Communism.

Cream of the Kremlin, fouled and greasy---
this dormitory wing was swiftly turning
into a buttery Chernobyl.

Bread line grew lengthy down kitchen's
back alley; banged mercilously
were my pot and pans with ladels.

The spanking persisted, welt upon welt.

Her camera continued filming; the propaganda
machine would use this to reel in fresh recruits.

Written by MaryWalker
Author's Note
a Randon act of violence against poetry sites
in the style of Brando
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 4 reading list entries 2
comments 8 reads 316
LunaGreyhawk Randon
Commenting Preference: 
The author encourages honest critique.

Latest Forum Discussions
Today 12:31pm by brokentitanium
Today 12:23pm by Northern_Soul
Today 9:44am by Northern_Soul
Today 5:07am by Sarah_J
Today 3:54am by brokentitanium
Today 1:24am by eswaller