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.