Poetry on the job.
I think of surrender. The surrender of thousands of men, beaten by the grim, blue-grey enemy.
The frozen bodies deposited in piles
Crowds of bitter soldiers marching to what we get to call death camps, that they probably had a name for —
Which has not survived.
Forgotten by a wrecked culture, a mess of ruined beings in wrinkled rows.
Consciousness turned to ice, sons packed in the cold and tortured by their survival.
Endurance that will match any men, before or after.
Shattered, smashed, shocked and shafted by a behemoth of production
That produced nothing but pain and nothingness.
I’m thinking in the boss’s office, a sty for swine that think they are so clever
Who never think of the cold waste of millions of men — millions before the millions before they were born.
They think they are so clever.
They will lose because they won’t give up. They would rather fight in the empty chill of unreason
Ignoring the truth and tunnelling into madness and blind, blind repetition
Of what is wrong and unworthy.
I will force them to surrender in the winter they have made for themselves.
The winter they thrive in.
These mutants! No passion, no curiosity, no gratitude and no spine!
They are weak, tedious, shallow, untouched by nature, stupid and
I will crush you like tank treads crush skulls in snow.