Archive for the ‘Pamyat’ Category

Altai, Belukha, Panthera…

Between the wars

and naked terror.

Power plays,

assertions, suggestions.

Insults fester,

sting forever.

Everyone knows best,

the enemy less.

Between the wars,

between the lines,

generations battle,


wisdom slides,



Humiliation is the key.




1933.05.10 Berlin Book Burning


Alas, not a copy of Peter Pan in sight.

(Knowledge is the lifeblood of my brain…)


wannabe Prussian scum,

terror reigns.

Inverting the Godly,

debauched, they deign:

ashes for beauty.




The toilet paper is shit!

So much so,

that it makes me hanker for

the time

when we carried newspapers around.

Newspapers which weren’t, perhaps,

but now, most definitely are


Oh, how the world turns.




Sweet as

a sleep deprived dream

in which your dog,

dead 10 years or more,

jumps into bed with you,

his paws on your shoulders,

he pulls you back to another time and place,

you feel his long member hard and extended,

it’s against your back and then it’s inside of you,

and he’s fucking you,



like the brutish little rapist he was

and apparently is.

Sweet as…




“Merd-iterranean!” I repeated, fawning.

“Oh, Mozart, you’re so witty!”

I shivered as he slid his hand up my leg, indecently probing my nether regions, groping, squeezing.

I simpered, obsequious.

… How could I say no to the genius?




There’s always tomorrow,

until there isn’t,

one way or another,

but, still,

and moving,

however jarring,

even if blown away,

there’s always yesterday.





Lenin’s falling

and so am I,

toppled, crushed and pounded.

The gravity of imposed


is oppressive.

… The people on the bus with me,

I must add,



are trash!




In the news today…

And forgotten tomorrow…

Everyone’s moving on…

Pain & suffering, refreshed,


a different face,

some other place.

Your blood is dried, gone.

No more tears are cried, for you.

For You…

You are expunged,



from the collective memory.

You are washed out.




“My history is way more interesting than your present

or your future could hope to be,”

the old woman smiled,





Subhuman scum, you say.

But good enough to make your meals

and cut your hair.

Until you murder us.


What then? …

Strange master-plan.