Charles the Bald (not to be confused with Charles the Bold),
may or may not have actually been bald (depending upon what is meant by bald).
…
This year, if you want to give me a present, so as to say,
don’t give me anything new,
s’il vous plaît.
The past is quite enough to deal with.
(To be continued…)
©SvetkaSamizdat
…
Fuck you and your panic attack!
… The future?
Screw that fear!
Today and yesterday, are and were
bad enough here.
©SvetkaSamizdat
…
The Big Apple is rotten,
as is the rest of the fruit salad.
Regardless, the tired and hungry masses clamor
to be accepted into its embrace,
its new and interesting ways of exploitation.
“Why?” I ask my dead relative.
Her reply: “The myth of apple pie.”
©SvetkaSamizdat
…
Screw you and your time imperatives!
I don’t wear a watch…
It takes as long as it takes…
The Sun rises & sets,
now will always be now,
in retrospect,
and tomorrow is Revolution!
©SvetkaSamizdat
…
Outside, I approached the car.
Inside, he watched carefully.
Slowly, he wound the window down.
I could hear Nautilus Pompilius playing,
one track transitioned into another,
a homemade cassette.
I smiled inwardly.
I knew we would have something to talk about.
©SvetkaSamizdat
…
When futurity turns into maturity,
when tomorrow becomes yesterday,
you wake up in a cell,
and you feel you have nothing left to hope for.
…
They lock the door,
they staple your feet to the floor,
and force you to watch the same race,
turgid time, after turgid time,
your least favorite Biathlete ever,
winning, yet again.
…
30cm TV screen, all too large,
you took a wrong turn
after the Hermitage.
©ddr7hd
…
Inside.
In the cell.
Alone.
Sensory deprivation,
a strange kind of bliss.
No night, no day, no clock.
I no longer had any idea of time.
I had moved beyond the bounds of linear custody,
become free,
in a sense,
in captivity.
…
The thoughts in my head,
words spoken,
internal dialog,
a mixture of present, past and future.
“Screw grammar!” I said to myself tomorrow,
yesterday I will be free.
…
A different kind of deportation…
A reverse orientation…
They sent me to Lviv
for writing a poem.
Little did they know where it would lead.
…
Ah, yes, Gleiwitz,
A lie,
Like all the others…
A lie,
To die for?
How many millions followed?
Deafening,
Deadening,
Noise.
…
