Глава 1962: Give Me Peace… & Goulash

So, this is what freedom tastes like?

Greasy.

Alas, I prefer goulash.

 

(To be continued…)

       

©SvetkaSamizdat

…

 

 

 

 

 

Polski 93

1993.

The Polish kids tell me

they *Love* Michael Jackson.

That’s nice, I reply (thinking of you),

he loves Polish kids too.

They look at me innocently, expectantly,

word in the village is

I’d once been to Hungary.

…

Bitterly, the babysitter reflects:

“Kids, you can do anything,

as evil as you like,

total impunity,

if you’re rich and famous enough.

This is the way of the West.

Exploitation, decadence, degradation.

As the man-child sings:

“Finger-fuck, my baby,

it don’t matter if you’re black or white”.

…

New world order,

disenchanted and confused,

past, present, future,

Polish kids cry.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

…

 

A New Beginning (?): XXII (Vienna Calling: IX, After Budapest…)

That yesterday,

however,

is a story for another day…

Sometime in the future past,

when the time is right.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

…

 

A New Beginning (?): XXII (Vienna Calling: VIII, After Budapest…)

In Budapest, I was lucky,

my sadness was overcome by tiredness

and I slipped into a form of nothingness.

For a while,

bliss.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

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