06-25-2012, 12:48 PM
Alfred wears a WWII German greatcoat;
the three bullet holes in the back indistinguishable
from a dozen or more ragged round moth holes.
Its greatness all the greater for their hunger.
Alfred killed frightened Germans for a living
he enjoyed gliding over them with his tank
it dulled the grating of his tracks on harsh earth;
only for a perceptible second or so, but he knew
he'd caught one or two of the slow scared bastards.
Underfoot was quagmire, men slipped and tripped,
in fear the grey-clads scrambled.
Alfred often liked to stop and better see them flee,
crawl, and try in vain to haul themselves up and over
steep walled ditches that gave little or no purchase.
Leather-gauntleted hands slipped on root and stone alike.
Waterlogged boot conceded failure to cold wet mud.
It was in these times he'd light one of his stubby cigars;
the same shape as his shells, he'd commandeered them
from a bloodied black dress-shirt pocket of the hierarchy.
Dead Waffen-SS officers had no taste; no need to smoke, except
in hell with all dead Jews sent Courtesy of Belsen's bakery.
Alfred tugged a mouthful of acrid smoke into his lungs
and smiled a Jewish smile as he bagged himself a trophy.
He also took his eighth iron cross, this one for his dead wife.
Alfred liked to wear the skin of a dead German soldier.
the three bullet holes in the back indistinguishable
from a dozen or more ragged round moth holes.
Its greatness all the greater for their hunger.
Alfred killed frightened Germans for a living
he enjoyed gliding over them with his tank
it dulled the grating of his tracks on harsh earth;
only for a perceptible second or so, but he knew
he'd caught one or two of the slow scared bastards.
Underfoot was quagmire, men slipped and tripped,
in fear the grey-clads scrambled.
Alfred often liked to stop and better see them flee,
crawl, and try in vain to haul themselves up and over
steep walled ditches that gave little or no purchase.
Leather-gauntleted hands slipped on root and stone alike.
Waterlogged boot conceded failure to cold wet mud.
It was in these times he'd light one of his stubby cigars;
the same shape as his shells, he'd commandeered them
from a bloodied black dress-shirt pocket of the hierarchy.
Dead Waffen-SS officers had no taste; no need to smoke, except
in hell with all dead Jews sent Courtesy of Belsen's bakery.
Alfred tugged a mouthful of acrid smoke into his lungs
and smiled a Jewish smile as he bagged himself a trophy.
He also took his eighth iron cross, this one for his dead wife.
Alfred liked to wear the skin of a dead German soldier.