Archive for the ‘Блядь!’ Category

In my shitty Novosibirsk Khrushchyovka,

I watch the wildlife documentary,

a video downloaded from the internet:

American and British experts

exalting in the wonders of Kamchatka.

They are right,

it is amazing,

I already knew that,

of course.

But, how lucky they are

to be there,


and, how strange,

the impossibility

that I could ever travel thence.

… Borders and visas are meaningless

when you’re broke …

And your own country might as well be Mars.

I look at the cracked floorboards and sigh,

Masha’s dacha will have to suffice.




Sitting on the bus

with the other convicts,

varying extents of self-awareness

on display,

I realize,

despite our differences

and hatreds,

we’re all the same.



of the choices

we’ve made


been forced into,

our names

long since signed away,

hopes and dreams

but a fading,






“That’s the smell of life, baby!”

he said, thrusting the damp Kleenex in my face.

I winced.

Strange, his smell of life…

strongly redolent of dead,






“Life, what a fucking farce!”

The objects taunt,

stirring memories which haunt.

All those good intentions,

flushed a-fucking-way.

You really tried,

did your best,

really poured your heart and soul

into the endeavor

(cavernous hole!)…

The objects mock you,

epitome of life,

futile spin of the wheel.

Pain, endless pain.

No wonder you want to walk away.




She tells me about her friend

and her problems,

so many problems:

medical, emotional, financial,

personal, general, universal.

She’s been mistreated and hard-done-by,


And to top it off,

she’s just turned 30,

she’s depressed,

she suddenly feels old.

Poor baby.

My heart bleeds.

With all her problems,

I believe,

she’s lucky she’s feeling anything.




Visit the newsroom,

if you dare.

For some it’s a vibrant place,

information, process, disseminate, fast-pace.

For me it’s depressing,

an overload of noise and soundbites,

mostly meaningless shit.

The editors push,

the journalists (they don’t have time or freewill to properly think)

churn out crap,

factoids and innuendos,

the readers are ready to be fed.

Welcome to the Times, New York, London,

the Sun rises and falls, Daily News, Daily Mail,

hearts fail.

Welcome to democracy’s bulwark.

Welcome to lies and fear.




It’s night-time.

I have better things to do at night

than drive

but I have to fetch the car

(Who’s car? Someone’s car. I don’t know…)


not my choice.

Isn’t life just a series of coercions?

Parked on a steep hill,

total darkness,

beckoning abyss,

I start the car,

try to balance clutch and throttle,

but gravity is stronger,

the car rolls back,

hurtling downhill,

and I can’t stop,

no brake,

no help,

no chance …

Unwilling passenger,

fate and futility,

life in this world,

spiralling down

out of control

until the road ends

a sickening crash,

tree, ditch,

I don’t know.

I wake up,





I stare into the abyss,

and down my leg I piss.

In my dream I am naked,

not nude, alas.


not composed.

Yet, it is an artificial construct,

suiting the other’s agenda.


and misrepresented,

decisions and derisions already made,

I know discussion is futile.




Internal exile.

Domestic abuse.








Good ideas come,

and go.




So, you proceed,

best intentions,


And then the mechanism breaks.

So you look to fix it.

But it is way more complicated than necessary.

And your head spins, dizzy,

as you struggle,


in futility.

There is no end.

This is capitalism, alas,

and stupidity:

you’re meant to phone a “friend”.