Islington, morning

I am fragmented and the world is
fragmented shifted the logic is
disjointed
I am the perfect portrait of this
My language slips my tongue
Globalized I
We
We
We

 

Christmas Borsch

At the Christmas table my father in law

quotes Marx and says that Lenin was a righteous fellow

I think he says it for me to hear it

but I don’t know

At the Christmas table my mother in law

never talks about politics

and is very devoted to catholic faith

but turns the blind ear to everything

as long as it pays

I sit at this Christmas table

eating their borsch

and feeling quite stupid and dumb

while thinking about my atheist aunt

who was rotting in communist prison

for rejecting the pravda’s of Lenin and Marx

My father in law

is sitting next to me and I don’t know why on my right

again quoting Engels and Marx

and I am eating this salty borsch

thinking about my grandpa’s running away from the Soviet’s hands

I want to get up

but my mother in law

pours into my plate just a little more

of her

sour Christmas borsch.

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Abnormal

I wake up thinking about infinity

I go to sleep thinking about infinity

this isn’t normal

normal is

to think about

the dinner

the shoes

and to pay your taxes

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.

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.

A pseudo theatre review from a certain play in New York.

It is rotting. This face of this little red spider with black curly hair, like a sheep. A black sheep. I seem so tall above her, but she is the boss – she is holding the red chair under her unfit butt. Of course I don’t need her for anything, but I was asked to be nice to her and it wasn’t exactly easy, cause my headache was growing, and I am not sure if it was due to the stuffy air or due to this piece of art I was just watching or due to my hypocrisy which I was asked to endure. Thanks to all the unseen spirits who made this performance short – that was the best thing about it. Then, I had to shake the hand of this bold guy with unsympathetic blue eyes- the creator of this performance- a self proclaimed anarchist, but unfortunately sponsored by the state. But which state? Don’t worry, not yours, you wise American reader! Which state? Let me give you a riddle- who are the dumbest people in the world? Yes, yes, you guessed! Oh, don’t be so politically correct. I’ve heard  it was Marx’s idea and besides, you are absolutely right this time, so don’t worry about insulting me! But let’s stop this way of thinking, the theatre is not a place for logic! Don’t you understand? You idiot? They do theatre because they suck at logic! That’s the result of it! Otherwise, they would be quite happy programming in Python all day long or constructing bridges which would work and not collapse  after the first trial! Oh, why are people so stupid? Can’t they understand that if he prays from the stage to abolish the state and the money, it doesn’t really mean that he seriously wants it! It is a metaphor of revolution! It is for you, you idiot to make you feel good about your work and that your taxes go towards something revolutionary! Oxymoron? Oh, who cares. I like the money, too. Let’s keep it. And then, let’s have a party. Good night.

One Prosaic Afternoon

My mother is so middle class and I’m her quirky baby
she holds a calculator on her laps calculating diengi
I tell her that I’m bored and sad
but she is getting angry
and tells me eat your soup cause soup is good
but am not feeling hungry
I ask her what’s the point of life
she says no one knows
and asks me about homework of geometry
she takes me to the kitchen table
to calculate the cone size, but I obviously hate this
I ask her about universe and stars
and then we start to argue
she calls me feeble-minded and I call her prosaic
but suddenly I see the cone comes from the page
and swirls in the air just in front of her

I do love geometry now
but now she thinks I’m crazy

Why my childhood sucked and who stands behind it all – a diary of a stupid girl from the Soviet Block. Investigation.

I was always curious. I didn’t know why there was no toilet paper, although my mother worked in the paper industry so I know from the first hand that there was paper production going on.  At school – there were this great, great writers, everybody knew they were great. Hemingway for example- but now, what I have stupidly discovered – he was a friend of Fidel. Fidel’s friend. Isn’t Fidel a commie? Commie – means the enemy, the worthless bad guy, who makes us suffer – that is why I have no house and this nasty lady with whom we are sharing our big apartment is disconnecting our power and claiming to the biuro, that we don’t live there anymore. Commie – the murderer.  So, Hemingway- the American ( aren’t Americans supposed to be good I am asking?) – was a friend of Fidel. The Cuban guy, if you don’t know. Fuck him then. But wait – there is Robert – Robert Redford- the iconic American good boy making a movie about Che. Well, I’ve seen it before but was too ignorant to know – a movie about Che. Che – the commie, the murderer, the reason of our sufferings.  Fuck them all! And I am not saying it as a compliment.    Anyway – there was just too much confusion in my upbringing. It all made me sick, temporarily. But I am healthy now and ready for fight- ready to think. My vision is clear and I am not easily corrupted. And since I am very insignificant, I can say everything, even something dumb.    There is a lot of gossip everywhere. I need to reset my software, my mind software because it got so crumbled I got sick.    I don’t trust the church either. Or the professors – either from left or right anymore. This one for example; he wants to introduce Zakon in our country. There is something wrong with him and I pity the poor guy.  Recently – I started studying economics. I didn’t know it was important- how could I know? There was no economy in our state of fools.    Although I finished the state university – I feel reluctant to play dumb – and curse – but, well, I have to. Yes, I admit, I am the unsuitable one, the one who talks not on the level and my words are sounding hoarse.    I had a dream that the state university was liquidated. I felt elated. I don’t know why. I always dreaded those professors, so self- important, so inhuman. Before speaking to them – I had to imagine them as little children, but I couldn’t see them that way. See, they couldn’t possibly be children, babies. Impossible. I think they were created in commie laboratories, somewhere in incubators, already adult and ready to kill your soul.    The same thing is with all institutions anyway.    And, I always have a censor in my head. But it’s just a fault of my weak personality. Outside influences are very strong and not to be ignored. So just in case I am against everything- temporarily.

Little Ben’s Song

Paper money, paper money, paper money, do you love me?

Oh, I love you,  paper money, you are oh, so sweet!

A tree in my backyard is worth more than you, but so be it,

I do love you paper money, you make me dance and sing,

all I ever need is ink

and my printer which is git

all the people waiting here

for my cute Gutenberg box

to create some magic bill.

Paper money, paper money

oh, so sexy, oh, so dumb

just like you like it man

just like you like it madame.