Thursday, March 06, 2014

Putin's Mad Game of Russian Roulette: A Poem for the Not Yet Dead to Rouse Them from Their Casket

Christopher Jon Bjerknes

When war breaks out, human instincts will emerge like awakened demons rising from the caverns of hell, the furious Beserkers clutching in their knotted fists the eyes torn from the enemy's skulls, held high over the fields of the dead, so that they may witness their defeat.

Bodies, so many millions draped over the landscape like bloodied green napkins on the devil's dinner table, some in rows like strings of gutted fish drying in the sun, others stomped into a billion bits by unseen giants trampling mankind.

The traitors, the communists, the professional America bashers, will be hunted down, and their Kremlin cash will not buy them a reprieve.

"Was the jews did this!" all will cry, but the tears bring no solace as they mingle with blood in drunken talk about the end.

Russia will become the most reviled nation in history for starting WW III, and for betraying the forgiveness of Europeans after the Cold War.

All the Putin whitewashing will be splattered with blood, the lies hit in the side of the head with a single gunshot fired from a roulette revolver in Putin's putrid hand.

The liars' tongues split with razors stropped on the backs of a billion dead.

Europe will again call upon America to save it in a stuttering panic.

The pile of corpses will mount and mount, and each gaping mouth in the mountain of corpses will cry out for revenge.

How could we have ever let down our guard before the communists? How could we ever have let the communists become the voice of public opinion and call for war and revolution without end?

Regrets won't buy a single bullet, the currency now is power.

Power holds the sword and the sword is power.

Raise the bloodied arm of the hero, sings the politician, and the gods spill his wine onto his white shirt as an omen for tomorrow.

The blood is everywhere, the oceans envy the blood, so much is it, that the mice paint themselves red to hide from the rats in the blood that is everywhere.

The babes wailing, their mothers mourning their dead fathers fallen.

Still more corpses, more blood.

The communists bathe in the blood, flipping the through the pages of their newspapers over their cups of blood, each mourning, dipping their doughnuts in the blood, red curtains of blood hanging from their flagpoles, each mourning.

It never ends, the end, the pain, the suffering as the flesh peels from the bone slow cooked in an instant in the radiation oven blasted from the sky whose anger recalls the flashes of light when the first eyes opened, the universe gazing at itself with human sight, those bedazzled eyes now closing.

The pain, where does it come from, from the same young soul that woke at Christmas morning to unwrap the joy, that same soul now mourning? The pain, when will it end?

"Was the jews did this!" all will cry.