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My grandma was a little bit possessed by the aristocratic madness
Love is a mistake
You lose your resolve, woman
He is not a god, and you are not a bird
You will go straight to well with your nirvana
They don’t want it
They like concrete
I really need to get myself some piano
Oh, Sappho and romantics
Stop strangling me in the sleep
Incubus
You dreamers
All your opium love spelled dreams
Are suffocating
Killing babies in their sleep at night for their selfish lovers
My husband only talks about money and properties
My husband only talks about money and properties
My husband only talks about money and properties
About pipes and refurbishments
About refinancing
And management
The finishing up buildings
And renovations
Carpets
Doors
I don’t give a damn about the shade of the doors endings
His mother only talks about money and properties
I don’t give a damn
I know I’m ungrateful
But I am suffocating
I want to talk about a nonexistent property
in this house
I’ 12 and I’m very depressed
love fantasy
jesus
pills
creating an altar
but my sister is not into religion
orange carpet
and I
loneliness
almost masculine
harsh
the imagination
of the catholic church
is rigid
i need more spring
more spring flowers and water
but not to holy mary
this men in white gowns must be very sad
priests
boys in entrapment
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.
Here he comes
when she comes into her grave
stiff legs
dark, empty, no help
she is dead
white hair
collapsed chest
horror
spilled tea
silence
no breath
I have no place to go
no place to hide
from reality
we are alone
nobody calls
we go
to buy her
nice cardboard shoes
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