Archive for the ‘Ich träumte von…’ Category

Last night I dreamt of family…

It was OK,

pleasant, the way it should be

(… bearing no resemblance to reality).

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

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You drool as you sleep,

salty residue left on your pillow.

Epic life memories, mainly forgotten.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

Mid-sentence… I always seem to wake.

No wonder I feel dazed, confused,

perpetually half-baked.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

Common sense? (Far from common!)

Logic, indeed, innate wisdom…

if you’re peaceful enough to listen,

and blessed enough to be free enough to pursue

the promptings, unmolested,

then you will find fulfilment,

strong filament,

bringer of light,

and the world will be a better place.

(If only the people actually wanted it to be!)

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

I dreamt (well, I think it was a dream),

one night or day,

that “they” asked me to negotiate

Mid-East peace,

the epitome of deal-brokering,

the ultimate legacy maker,

the secular holy grail, so as to speak.

Me?

Why not?

So, I tried, as others have, and failed.

And…

My conclusion: the belligerents maintain the conflict, so as to validate themselves and, importantly, to keep revisiting 5-star hotels in relatively pristine European cities…

where nice prostitutes remember their names.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

I dreamt I had a backyard.

And in that backyard one day appeared

a monstrously large pig.

It would come and go,

eating and destroying at will.

I tried to catch the pig,

or chase it away,

all to no avail.

Torment and torture,

in my backyard

(in my dreams!),

dirty melting snow.

Peace of mind

and existence,

elusive as the end of a rainbow.

 

©ddr7hd

 

After some effort,

blocking out external stimuli,

I fell asleep.

It was a brief respite.

I dreamt of an enemy,

the way they used to be,

a friend,

it was nice,

the way family should be.

I woke up.

Alas, reality’s stark,

albeit unnecessary.

A shame it’s not up to me.

We didn’t have to be enemies.

 

©ddr7hd

 

The hate didn’t come from nowhere.

The atrocity didn’t start with one crime.

Kaunas, 1921: Saul pulled a fast one on Vitas.

Kaunas, 1941: Vitas’ son, crowbar heave-ho,

smashed Saul’s daughter’s skull,

naked, she fell,

the crowd cheered.

The dreaded Bolsheviks were Jews,

guilt by rationalization,

propaganda and association,

after all.

Bullshit, Communist, Capitalist, Conspiratorial, Cosmopolitan Jews.

Dirt poor and filthy rich all at once.

Oppressed overlords.

If there isn’t at least one who’s pissed you off, you’ve been living under a rock.

Easy target… but they’re just the start!

1905 begat 1917.

1917 begat 1932.

1918 begat 1939.

1945 begat 1956, 1968.

Etc.

And on.

Pain and hurt.

And on.

Perverted, keenly-felt, stabbing memories.

Circle of unreported hate.

War, and crimes of humanity

we feel compelled to perpetuate.

 

In my cell, I have no sexual desire,

per se.

But I do dream.

One night or day, I dreamt a dream of history and fact,

real and true, but bizarre.

Vienna.

The emperor,

an energetic innovator in many ways,

has chosen not to marry,

still, he has urges,

but proudly Catholic,

he believes masturbation is a self-indulgent sin,

so he satisfies himself by raping his gardener’s daughter, daily,

and visiting a brothel, treating the women roughly,

using and abusing,

sluts and low-lifes that (he believes) they are,

scum,

cum,

scum,

deplorable,

idiotic piety and blasphemy,

blood and bruises,

internal, external,

if only he’d been considerate enough to touch himself.

Hail to the emperor,

he is a paragon of shit!

At that point, my dream becomes a fantasy:

I dream that the women of Vienna,

The Holy Roman Empire in full,

mobilize on the puny prick

and rip him to shreds.

Come the revolution!

I wake up.

Everything was as it had been.

 

She was the sister I never had.

I was low, blue and sad.

She swooped in from nowhere,

right in my face,

and, with a flash, took my photo.

Surprise!

Startled,

I blinked.

The camera was one of those old Polaroid types,

gradually the photo emerged from bottom,

printed,

developed,

so as to speak.

She waved it so the ink would dry,

and slid it smoothly into an envelope.

She’d be mailing it to me, she said:

“So, you’d better start looking out for yourself!”

Hah!

Ha, ha, ha!

Immediately, I *got* it,

and, genuinely touched,

I smiled.

“In the meantime, here,” she said,

and handed me a notebook.

“Write!”

Meaningfully and winsomely, she beamed,

turned,

and said goodbye.

I got on the bus, holding the notebook,

128 blank pages.

Mamka,

Papka,

Sestry,

Pechali,

Pamyat…

Such words swirled through my head.

Perhaps I could dream.

Perhaps I could write.