Whirlwind idyll.
Incongruous, cacophony,
somehow melodic and fitting,
it soothes my transplanted soul
(suppressing feelings of being but not belonging).
Tonight I surrender to the pulsating release,
and sing: “Lemberg, L’vov, L’viv,
let’s get married!”
(To be continued…)
©SvetkaSamizdat
…
He whispers sweet somethings in my ear.
I smile, aware that I’m dreaming.
Gutted inside and mind,
waiting for the next stab in the back.
©SvetkaSamizdat
…
Knock on door,
I answer.
Smiling and ardent,
he hands me a bottle of Vodka
(it might as well be Boyaryshnik,
or arsenic!),
and 12
Yellow
Roses.
The door closes itself,
I walk away.
… Hazy dream waking.
©SvetkaSamizdat
…
You try to do the “right thing”
and each day you die a little more.
Fallen world.
©SvetkaSamizdat
…
Mutually Assured Destruction.
Perversely, it’s a beautiful thing.
Sorting the elemental from the superfluous.
And I am glad I made a stand,
rejecting the temporal,
even though it meant pillory,
exclusion
and prison.
After all…
what good is your big house,
your refrigerator, your 200cm TV,
your child, or life insurance policy,
when an ICBM hits your city?
©SvetkaSamizdat
…
Woe is me,
Woe is you,
Woe is us…
Screeching fuss.
The human condition.
Heal me physician!
(As if!)
…
You seek help.
Placebo today,
Butcher tomorrow.
Vanity of vanities,
Perpetual insanity.
… Humanist?
What hope?
Together, all alone, we die.
©SvetkaSamizdat
…
Every thought you think.
Every urge you indulge and/or struggle against.
(… Resist!)
Every order you obey.
Everything you say.
Every word you read and/or hear,
affecting, …
infecting your perspective.
Constant barrage,
constantly compromised.
Trust no one.
Your time will come.
Kompromat.
©SvetkaSamizdat
…
Is there any depth to your depravity,
your violation of humanity?
Does it have an end, a meaning, a reason?
Or is it innate, shallow, banal,
everyday, personal treason?
©SvetkaSamizdat
…
The Americans asked me: “Why Crimea? Like, what the hell?”
“Well…” I replied, “In addition to everything else, Koktebel!”
©SvetkaSamizdat
…
Wave of futility
sweeps over me,
cold breath on my stiff neck.
Half-life, too much, and never enough…
Pain, so much pain…
… creeping death.
©SvetkaSamizdat
…
