Archive for the ‘Nous, les enfants du xxème siècle’ Category

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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

 

 

 

 

 

1993. Polska

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

 

Simone Weil

Her memory spoke to me in a dream,

chastising, emphasizing,

be a thinker *and* doer.

She spoke to me,

reminded me,

her life and actions louder than words.

Simone Weil,

do

and die.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

1958. 10F

For all the Liberté, égalité, fraternité

Let us not forget too

that Bourgeoisie

is a proudly French term.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

Vis-à-vis,

mon ami,

be careful what you wish for,

it might be a cliché,

like yesterday,

and heartbeats…

(perhaps you only have so many)

…minutes at the beach.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

I open my wallet and remember,

something personal.

Past,

history,

the me that was

and is

in memory

and actuality.

I liked the money with Karol Świerczewski on it.

It meant something to me.

The 50 złoty note, a historical bookmark most would prefer forgotten, a pan-Slavist idealistic remnant of the people’s republic, overcome by hopes and hopelessness, the European nightmare, democracy, capitalism, perceptions of freedom and the kind of work ethic that sends you to another country. Sigh. Yes, I prefer memory and sleep.

 

Life, I turn one way.

And then I turn another.

Sigh, I prefer sleep.

 

When you don’t like the name you were given,

or the role assigned by “fate”,

sometimes,

sometimes,

when the time is apt

(new wave, vanguard rides),

you can choose your own path,

within the radical system,

and be

a functionary,

anonymous to the masses

(now, allow yourself a self-satisfied smile),

part of the new ruling class,

a righteous cog,

essential pillar,

Apparatchik.

 

Politely declining an invitation

that I know is wrong.

Praying, listening to the voice within,

obeying my moral imperative,

doing the right thing.

Unexplainable, perhaps,

incomprehensible,

but totally justifiable

to myself.

And that

is what matters.

 

I have a soulmate.

I had a soulmate?

I remember the beautiful years and days when we were close.

Poetic and sublime, words don’t suffice.

Beautiful.

Bliss.

Sigh.

Then time and people, situations and circumstance,

messed things up,

sullied and discordant,

and an awkward, spasmodic communiqué

became our way.

Tomorrow is her Birthday

and I want to give her my all,

to tell her I love her, madly and deeply,

but there is a distance and a barrier,

so all I can do is give her a few words.

Insufficient and frustrating.

Such is life,

Katyusha.

C’est la vie,

fucked and pained.