Here's a poem written by Peter Gibbons, a character from my novel in progress, Apophenia. It is not to be taken very seriously.
Stalin’s
Mustache: A Statement of Purpose
What trenches we swam through, you and I,
brothers of the crimson cloth, mercilessly slicing throat to throat, all across
the battlefields of Europe, each body we killed a drink, a drop, a stone cast
upon a rippling lake. The Germans fell with every shot of your rifle, I a
passenger, a mere sheathe for your knife, your bullets, your canteen. The Commissaire
threatens us with death if we turn back; I could never dream of turning back,
having transformed into the veritable death machine I am today. What the man of
steel says you perform; what I do is reflected in the gleam of a blade, plunged
into a million throats, slicing through Aryans, Jews, political prisoners,
clergymen, and any who would oppose those bristly lips, those dark, course
hairs that stick in my heart like the thorns of a rose.
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