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@ 27.055 MHz: Ad Astra; In A Suburb Of Moscow, Russia, In 1919
Outside this wretched hovel of an apartment, the
Motherland writhes in the throes of agony, as
eager and clumsy Bolshevik hands---like covetous paws---
rip her womb open and part her vital organs to
bring the squaling Workers' Paradise to unnatural birth
Envious thugs and garruolous theorists lurk outside.
Let us make love in the limted time that remains to us.
Our souls know, already, that their intentions will not
bode well for us, who bear surnames---but not the wealth of---
proprietors; dancer and poet, you and I, and neither of us
peasant nor proletarian. neither weilding sickle or hammer.
Our shoes abandoned by the door; our clothes have been
scattered across the room, in slovenly disarray, and I wonder---
will the expected intruders will allow us to cover ourselves?
But I cannot allow such thoughts to deflate this intimacy.
Naked, put your stockings on, my beautiful beloved: the
opaque lavender pair, and garter them to your thighs tautly.
They say that Lenin and Krupskaya are, in their hearts of stone,
old prudes hellbent on vengeance and not the People's good.
I do not know for sure, but this I know and of this I am glad:
not even our fear of what they can, what they will, to do us,
overkills the surge of desire in our flesh even if this is to be the
last night of our loving, the last of an era, even the last of Russia.
Our souls are aware, with eerie accuracy, of the invariable
routines of their persecutions: unfounded accusations,
separations that become interminable isolations, with only
the punctuations of starvation, thirst, and torture for its
own sake. They will demand that we disclose to them
knowledge we cannot possibly recite even vaguely
because we cannot possibly know the facts they want so
nervously to ascertain. They will inflict injury to our
bodies and minds for our innocent ignorance
which will not resolve the issues of their arrogant ignorance.
Eventually, they will shatter my skull with a shot I will not
even hear before my brains and blood splatter, to dry and
encrust, upon the gray, weathered stones of some prison wall.
You---my sweetheart, lover, and dearest friend---they will
hang by the neck from a dirty robe flung over a crooked beam,
without the mercy of a drop, so that your slender legs will
jerk in a final dance as the knotted noose strangles you---
you. the most beautiful boy in the ballet (applauded by the
Tsar himself; admired by the late Grand Duke Konstantin,
himself a formidable poet and appreciator of exquisite
beauty and love---because they want to see your legs jerk
out the final, executed dance of death upon the air. The
two of us are only expendable adolescents, the sons of
bureaucratic factory managers who, themselves, expelled
us from their homes because we love each other. The
Bolsheviks will expel us from this world and from life itself:
they cannot understand the way we love each other.
Their so-called love for the poor, exploited masses allows
them to murder all who are different---and also in masses.
They will be coming for us before the night has ended.
Put on your stockings, once more, and let us come to each other,
before our lives' short spans, having come in joy, have gone.
Starward
A PRODIGIOUS POETRY BOMB OF
A prodigious poetry bomb of profoundest emotion and stunningly deep complexity of romance. You are a master.
bananas are the perfect food
for prostitues
Thank you, sir. I just
Thank you, sir. I just caught a typo, so I apologize that it was not corrected when you read the poem, but I have corrected it just now. And, as always, I greatly appreciate your visit to the poem and your very complimentary comment. Thanks again.
Starward