I’m not your wannabe Lenin

in Shushenskoye,

or elsewhere.


don’t bring me your problems.





The contemptible cunt has found her breadbasket,

you seem to delight in telling me,

again and again.

But I don’t want to know anymore.

Another (very) bad nosebleed before bed,

And I am drained.






Subhuman scum, you say.

But good enough to make your meals

and cut your hair.

Until you murder us.


What then? …

Strange master-plan.




If you look up you might see something,

perhaps even something wonderful.

But most people don’t look up,

they prefer to look down,

to stay, as they say,

in touch, “grounded”.

In the mud one doesn’t see

the reflection of lost opportunities.




You come upon the scene,

Soviet Lithuania,

some kind of Summer camp,

idyllic amongst the trees.

You walk forward and meet a girl,

she smiles at you,

in Russian you ask what it is,

this gathering,

“Ateitis!” she replies.

Atheism, you assume and raise your eyebrows,

remembering the complicated history of religion here,

lingering paganism, some say, and what of the Jews?

Liquidation and simplification, both good means and ends,

the Party is supreme,

you smile thinly,

then blink

(so briefly!)


reopening your eyes

the girl and the scene have disappeared,

a strange awakening,

right or wrong,

the mirage is gone.

And somewhere in the background

Church bells ring.




If only people would be quiet,

shut up and listen,

they’d soon realize

(if only they’d try!),

I have something (way!)

more interesting to articulate,

than the banalities

they repeat,

day after day.




Ah, yes, the

neverending legitimacy and wannabe

pissing match.


we all think we’re special

and we assert our interests,

trashing others’,

with hateful lies and destruction,

cloaked in bogus justification,

because we’re older or younger,

more this or that,

and deserve greater than the human next door.

The man beats his chests like an ape,

standing proud,

while up above aliens look down

and see

a small man with wet pants

and urine down his leg.




Last night, this morning,

the dream,

it made you excited,

it gave you hope and sustenance,

it made you smile.

And now, after a day full of wakefulness,

other people, dross,

you feel drained,

yes, ready to sleep

but, hurting,

too tired to dream.

Afraid, indeed, to dream:

knowing that tomorrow

reality will slap your face once more,


a dream,

it seems,

is the best you can hope for.




So, you’ve achieved the wet dream your parents instilled in you,

well done, big man,

you’re a manager now.

A controller, manipulator, facilitator,

a façade of power.

Above all, you’re a despicable exploiter.

Still, you’re a manager,

you have an expensive car

and your parents are proud.

It doesn’t matter what you manage,

that’s an inconsequential detail,

you have no real interests or passions,

just power and prestige.

You have your own office,

you can shut the door,

you have a desk,

behind which

you can masturbate

until the cows come home.

Big man.



True trash.

Managerial class,

head up ass.

Gets paid a fortune and

leaves the world a worse place.




No one asks me how I (really) am,

not in a way that I can truly answer.

Alone in a forest of trees,

gradually the ground subsides,

one by one we topple,