He didn’t take it, didn’t extend his hand,
He took it and died in mid-December, on the fifteenth,
almost a holiday when the chimes strike,
and the people sighed, and rejoiced, made a fuss,
sat down on the rugs and ate,
the remains of what was
only an echo of time,
and opened their bellies and gave birth to a new world,
for all,
not for one
When I die from overeating, I won’t be able to fart for the last time, and the morgue’s pathologist will clean out my intestines, cursing with obscene eloquence.
A crow waits on a branch, sharpening a knife in the dark.
To avoid starving the next day, a dog finishes off the remains of a human burger with skewered sausage.
You’re so thin that the trace expert doesn’t want to hand you over to the slaughterhouse, even though he’s been given a thousand rubles. Live and remember that there’s too much luck on your deathbed.
I listen to the department deporting people from India to somewhere home from the cloudy pink marshmallow of America, while cracked, drunk children scream there, the future of a dead country, their brains long ago eaten by Chernobyl. Because the dose is a thousand times higher and everyone has thyroid problems, and I also want to go up into those clouds to shit little green-wrapped sulfur candies on the heads of a dead country… Goodbye everyone, I’ve warmed up.
Sometimes I look at green, but I see streaks, sometimes I look at bloody, but I see white stripes, sometimes instead of a star I see an eagle squashing a fish. I know that I, like you, received an injection of freedom from the free sun, like a gift, into my heart. I began to fly as best I could, as if there were no more countries or continents, but only one single America, with its bays and steamships, and there isn’t a single cornered clown there, now and forever… Amen.
DoubleSpeak 