The war of 1944
lest we forget that it should not be for nought.
The swarm was split. It bursts apart with flame and writhes in collected screams of pain of individual death; as their cell bodies bloody burst and are blasted apart.
At a distance and alongthis skewed, clawedskirt;heir numbers held fast, for still they clambered this grey concrete fort. They slid forth, this ammunition of men, this gathering of cowled monks, determined to succeed on this perverted pilgrimage; and while they writhe forward, they slowly throttle their enemy, for one single reason: a victory against a tyranny. A fight againsts a beast, whose vice like grip, breaks the cracked backs of the weak and the impoverished. That is why this ammunition of green is unconcerned, about the blue bodies upon whom they tread; for this is war and the future -at this point- is uncertain.
In sonic screams of resonance, the bombs fall. Then rip apart in brutal blast waves. It’s a king’s sadistic reign, from a throne no one fully glimpses.The explosion’s leave behind wet tonged kisses, from empty cavernous mouths, that leave soft sighs, as their blistering light transforms human bodies into unknown forms; that are gathered up in wisps of air; to beremoved from all their fear guilt and despair.
The bloody noise is maddening, deafening and numbing.It slaps humans down. In squeezed air of detonation, their bodies become transformed into mere meat; they are cast down upon an altar, to their ancient invisible titan, Cronos, who, slowly starts to devour them. While suckeling on the marrows of the dead men's bones, his eyes become wide with pleasure, as white drooling cum spills from his full wet lips.
Salt sea mixes with wet sand along this rough skirt.it's added with a slap of ice blood, that hits the face and chokes the throat, as yet unbroken though weighted bodies slowly drown in the water. Some are gasping for air; they fight before the dark, but are caught and punctured with spiralling bullets, that slide through softening skin, to release pulped organs. These spits of spiralling death, are reflected in a forced impact; a crunch upon the shoulder from a whump, pumped in a rotating recoil that stings. The vicious kiss from the automatic weapon, cracks cotton fibre and then bruises the flesh hidden bones pressuring soft arteries , that spurt in wild furious arcs, through the heart and into the brain through which reflects in these crazed eyed soldiers, who yell themselves hoarse with fears.
White spittle insane fury, explodes from wounded cut mouths; while above, and from the cloudy, cluddy, sky, there resounds the whumping crash smash splash of explosions, with gusts of screams from the imploding bombers, that burst and blister into knotty expanding orange balls of flame, before slamming with a deafening crescendo into the skirt with a roar that all whom hear it, become mute. to all else upon this war torn bloody shore.
And was it worth it…was it worth it?The war of 1944?When in the end the all victorious want is the Axis to take the floor?
Tell me was it worth It was it worth it? For in this bloody victory of a better tomorrow, a dying generation can now only look with bitter sorrow, at their the tears for their hero’s, whose lives have been shedfor nought.
For that generation has been shriven; driven away by less worthy money men, their own children who’d rather that their children forget, that times- ironic- arrow, as led to this:Another vile decay, on a beach today.
For with muted mouths, we all watch our screens; as the crows circle in slow cycles, before descending, then nipping, ripping and tipping upon the bloated water flesh of children that this so called brave society, built out of the deaths of our forefathers, slowly turned its back on.
Andrew David Hunt (1967 - present) was born in the U.K county of West Sussex. From a very early age, he had a love of reading and writing fantasy and fiction.
Despite having been diagnosed with both dyslexia and dyspraxia late in life, he went on to attain a Ba-honours in English language and literature. He has written and self published a collection of short stories entitled "Dark Whispers" a screenplay of R.L. Stevenson's "the Beach of Falesá" as well as two books of poetry. "sequential creation" and "the little book of sonnets". He currently resides in the UK county of Devon.
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…the cyclops makes monsters of us all” Roy Braithwaite (taken from a taped recording made by his Niece Geraldine Braithwaite 1987)