Monday, May 30, 2016


They were always telling me it was
a little place I'd really like. Siberia.
Where they send dogs to die. Men
too, but now the ones who were sent
there are all dead and there's been
little re-supply. It little matters, really,
where they go. They never return,
and I knew neither would I.
I shook off the sense of hurt and anger,
and downed my vodka like a man. Or at
least a Russian man. Who says this shit's
made from potatoes? Same people who
say Stalin was grand? This crap belongs
in a cancer-ward piss-yard. Call
Solzhenitsyn on that one, or
find out for yourself.

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