Archive for the ‘All Over The Place’ Category

Earth, Dry, Cracked

Sometimes,

many times,

you know that, really, you don’t want to know.

Knowing is a burden,

a form of responsibility you don’t need or want,

yet you are drawn in,

compulsively,

destructively,

fear of missing out,

banality,

written on your tombstone.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

 

 

 

 

d09ad0bed188d0bad0b0d0a4d0b5d0bbd0b8d181d0b5d182d1822

In a past life,

I was sent into space,

launched in a rocket,

I forget the time and place.

Traumatized, atomized,

blasted and dissected,

everything lost meaning,

form and being.

Nevertheless,

I have a feeling that I wasn’t dog or ape,

hopefully then, I was Félicette,

Parisienne Hero Cat,

not, alas, a nameless,

forgotten rat.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

 

 

 

 

City Of London School For Girls

 

Outside is unlikable,

so I stay in the hotel.

For a time,

I watch the amount of television I can bear.

The commercials are a killer:

(im)morality lessons from frozen French-Fry companies,

and legal loan sharks proudly promoting usury as a viable option.

Then there’s the news:

you can have anything, if you pay,

even an education.

Lies, manipulation and exploitation.

It gets to the point where I can’t take anymore,

The noise, the clanging, the shit.

I turn the TV off, throw the remote control out the window,

and brave the streets myself.

Welcome to hell.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

Letters in Vortex

 

I read the letter, received.

To me it feels both hollow & surreal,

meaningless & meaningful.

It stirs up old emotions & new,

drains me

and fills me with dread.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

Immediately before, during and after climax,

when I have no control,

ecstatic for the moment,

a cascade of negative images,

faces,

hurts and enemies,

floods through my mind’s eye.

Utter violation,

perverted blasphemy.

It’s distressing

and

depressing

to be assaulted thus

in a private moment of bliss.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

The government wants to execute you!

But their heart isn’t in it,

fully,

otherwise it would already be done.

The pretence of justice,

trial and jury,

would be dispensed,

abiding by convictions,

the system would do as expected,

and you would be shot.

But instead you are hung

and left hanging,

in limbo,

in hell.

Often, you wish they would shoot you,

like a dog,

just get it over with,

but society cares more about dogs

than people.

Uncertain fate,

neverending circle of hate.

Inside, torment

is never dormant.

Yes, they have decided to torture you

in the way that only life and living

can do.

The government wants you

to execute yourself.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

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.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

Ah, yes, the

neverending legitimacy and wannabe

pissing match.

Basically,

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.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

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,

reminding,

a dream,

it seems,

is the best you can hope for.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

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.

Spunk.

Junk.

True trash.

Managerial class,

head up ass.

Gets paid a fortune and

leaves the world a worse place.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat