Archive for April, 2018

Sometimes

no time

is a good time.

Sometimes

it’s relative,

often it’s absolute.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

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The TV preacher sounds hollow

to my ears,

around the wall,

in the kitchen.

“Make it happen!”

effectively,

he’s saying,

squeezing out the mystery,

the Glory

of the Holy Trinity.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

Dizzy already,

some kind of sickness in me,

weak, feeling vile.

I wish he’d just go away,

but no,

he presses,

asks again,

what has he done.

… Everything, and nothing.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

Picasso’s mournful feeling,

his despair,

was deepest in the mornings –

he found it hard to get up before Noon.

What reason for living,

if he,

perceptive artist,

sees thus?

Salvation in the afternoon?

One can hope.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

1, 2, 3 …

Does it ever end?

Who knows the truth, when mistakes blend?

Caught on the wrong side of history,

we speculate,

left to rue the way our “overlords” defecate.

1, 2, 3 …

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

I was ready to offer an olive branch,

peace,

but you decided to be honest,

speaking your views of me,

bogus.

Ipso facto

and fokus-pokus…

… Hopes of rapprochement,

gone!

Cold war freezes.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

Façade and farce,

the line between the two,

as if drawn in sand,

beachside,

as the waves roll in,

high tide coming,

happy Fathers’ Day.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

It feels worse this time,

worse than I remember then,

I’m feeling it *now*

after all.

(No hope in me, drained of life,

replacement: sad fear and despair…)

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

If you want the question answered,

*that* is not the question to ask.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

I prefer pen to pencil,

the expectation of permanence,

even if it entails the occasional smudge.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat