Oh, why didn’t we join the KGB? – A Pitiful Song

To hell with art
to hell with everything
it doesn’t change anything
the kgb always wins
the kgb runs the theatre mill
the kgb has the tv
the publishing house and newspapers
it’s all the kgb
while the artist is rotting
I piss on the art I want to do nothing
it didn’t bring back
any of the land
stolen by the kgb
and I am an underdog
living in the concrete box they have built for me
laughed at
by kgb from the tv screen
while my family is called loonies pitiful losers
by bribe masters kgb
Oh, my pitiful loser family!
still volunteers for the insane cause
philosophically
with shrinking retirement
while the kgb
retired with grace
and still shows itself on tv
and everybody is clapping
(as if they forgot about everything)
while watching their daughters dance
on tv
Oh, why didn’t we join the kgb.

Advertisement

Oh, why didn’t we join the KGB? – a pitiful song.

To hell with art
to hell with everything
it doesn’t change anything
the kgb always wins
the kgb runs the theatre mill
the kgb has the tv
the publishing house and newspapers
it’s all the kgb
while the artist is rotting
I piss on the art I want to do nothing
it didn’t bring back
any of the stolen land
by the kgb
and I am an underdog
living in the concrete box they have built for me
laughed at
by kgb from the tv screen
while my family is called loonies pitiful losers
by bribe masters kgb
Oh, my pitiful loser family
still volunteers for the insane cause
philosophically
with shrinking retirement
while the kgb
retired with grace
and still shows itself on tv
and everybody is clapping
(as if they forgot about everything)
while watching their daughters dance
on tv
Oh, why didn’t we join the kgb.

Deadfall. Prose poem.

Stuffy, ghastly hot day in New York isn’t promising anything good. In the evening, in between the stale air one after another mad yells and screams are exploding in the tiny apartments on my street. I am wondering how many murders were committed tonight. And there was a war in my apartment as well, which made me feel absolutely deserted, but strangely light and philosophical at the same time. I wasn’t thinking about murder though, although I did feel a new kind of cold hatred; suicide always felt like a closer option according to my nature. I looked through the window. Why isn’t anybody balancing on the roof.  Why are people so quiet and enduring this hatred which trickle from every brick tonight. This silent hatred in the middle of nothing. Cruel, cruel evening. I opened a window again. Somebody, a wild tiger is tearing someone’s guts. Just here, in front of my eyes, on the pavement. I see it, I look at it, but really can’t do anything about it. The night screams. I need to close the window. I hope I will not wake up again.