PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

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.

J-Called