A guest poem from Spoaken Word Lewes regular open mic’er Fred The Ninja. Thanks Fred.
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I owe my very existence to Russian fucking tanks.
If my dad had not run from them 66 years ago in Hungary, he never would have come here, never would have met my mum.
Even though I never faced them myself the bloody trail of their tracks is imprinted on my life.
The trauma he carries from that time shaped him and it shaped me too in turn.
My normal is not normal, or at least it should not be.
It does not really matter whose fucking tanks they are, every fucking tank leaves a similar trail of destruction, way beyond the reach of their puny little cannons.
And here we go again, fucking tanks.
