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.

Advertisement

‘The Wife of the Pig-Butcher ‘

She is a man’s best friend

taken out of the master’s rib

chirping bird

of catholic church

oh, that’s fine, as long as she doesn’t call me

can’t stand her village voice

it’s really low but she tries to make it high and sweet what sounds like cacophony

when He comes

the meateater

the wisest pig-butcher in the village

and she bows

good, he provided her with the opportunity to have a ‘woman’ in the house

like a cow gives milk and chicken gives eggs

so is a woman to wash and clean

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.

Theatre of cruelty. Before the show. The director’s diary.

Oh, I need to do some art, I really, really need it! When I don’t do art, I feel like I am on fire! Silencio! I got an idea! Let’s find a lobster and hang it. Oh, my cruel theatre, it is going to be cruel, very very cruel! I love it, love it, love it! Hey, stage manager! Come here! Where is the lobster? Nice, red and alive. It will be a pleasure to kill it! Yes, hang it here, where is the hook, you moron? How do you want me to hang it without the fucking hook, I am asking? The show opens in half an hour, and there is no hook! You are fired! Hey, stage manager! Where is the mud and the saw? What saw? How do you want me to cut it without a saw? My goodness, what an idiot! Oh, there is mud, good, let’s bring some more and put this minced meat on her head, yeees, very nice, a little more here, don’t you understand, her whole head must be covered in this! My God, why do I have to work with such stupid assholes! Talking about assholes, you look nice today. OK, quick, quick! The show opens in 15 minutes! The lobster is hot and ready for the performance. Curtain up! Up! Up! Up!

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

Fucking New York. Chapter first and last.

Piper methysticum or death.

Should I kill myself or have a cup of coffee? –

said Camus

the guy who didn’t love life

too much

I really can’t make up my mind

should I kill myself or have my Piper Methysticum tea instead?

my illegal nectar

in this sad and absurd place

from where I came

It’s just too much today

the door of the world is closing

why should I be hopeful

and lie myself to sleep

that tomorrow will be better

but it never is, not here

Should I kill myself or wait

again

fear daze connection lost

unavailable

silent hatred

Should I kill myself today

It just hurts too much

to be in New York tonight

where nothing seems to go well

but at least my illegal tea

is free at this place

I wish I were an artist – New York Songs.

I wish I were an artist

but I am not

Gays, hustlers, and male prostitutes

Junkies who write and paint

should I bring them gold

29 million

at an auction why not

they will teach me all the good stuff

and I will be happy

so happy and high

walking in the central park

in a joyful downfall

I wish I was a gay hustler

I wish I could shoot heroin on a park bench

and then talk about that

in the newspaper

and get paid

29 million

why not.

I wish I were an artist

but I am not.