Archive for the ‘Pamyat’ Category

So, woe.

I didn’t get sent away on a Philosopher’s Ship.

Apparently I have something better to offer…

Indeed,

a train awaits, pointing the other way,

for me and my comrades a cattle car,

teplushka.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

Detachment,

allows everyone,

disparate,

to progress their agenda,

regardless of carnage.

Drugs, evil, gangs, pain.

Oliver North,

Sheepshead Bay hero,

yes man, can-do man,

are you listening?

Repenting?

Mixed-up,

real Americans,

know it’s complicated.

(…Please desist from blaming us

for everything…)

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

When the atlas meant something…

The promise of both escape and finding oneself.

Wide expanse…

Indeed.

When you could dream

and remember the next day.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

Alas!

Moscow, New York, is no more,

if it ever was,

truly.

But always,

one way or another,

it shall remain,

indelibly Russian.

You just need to know

where,

to go.

And peace…

Be quiet,

breathe,

touch the object,

like a lion’s foot,

think

and reflect.

Like: “What comes next?

…Once upon a time…”

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

In my piss

I smell asparagus.

It speaks of a certain kind of wellbeing.

… Elemental bliss.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

If you think about it…

in a sense,

innocence

doesn’t live here any more.

The child has come of age and realizes the futility of it all. He/she withdraws. Taut. Ready to explode.

Quiet and deep-thinking, like a Finn, and all that entails.

(Bread basket travesty…)

… Molotov Cocktail.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

OK, I guess I’d stopped thinking about them,

for the sake of sanity,

but now I am reminded,

and I revisit the details,

deep into the silo,

and… it’s mind-blowing.

Such might, power, prowess and hubris.

Yet, our buildings are crumbling

and our people are lacking.

… Truly, we are motivated by destruction.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

New York is enraptured

as Jimmy Connors is more of an asshole than ever,

and

the USSR is crumbling apart.

Momentous.

Cavernous pit,

all utter shit…

Captivating,

compulsive

trainwreck in motion,

where will it end?

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

History and terror.

Who knows what was true?

Can you trust perspective?

If you were there, passion and fear,

ashes,

blood,

and guts.

For the others:

words, time,

rust…

Detachment changes meaning

and books

gather

dust.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

History is written by the victors,

so they say.

Actually,

it’s often written by the aggrieved,

those who are sufficiently motivated to

make the point,

to explain their pain.

History,

raison d’être,

as one is yesterday

and today.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat