Greet death
with your hands in your pockets,
slouched back, cool,
collected, and confident.
Wear a hint of a grin
and a dash of cologne.
Say What took you so long?
Say You're behind the times, man.
Say Dead is the new black.
Coffin is the new condo.
Pallor is the new tan.
La vida muerta.
Greet death
with a fistful of black-eyed susans,
butterflies in your stomach,
and two tickets to tomorrow's sunrise.
Wear your father's cufflinks
and your mother's wedding ring.
Say I brought these for you, babe.
Say Kiss me, kiss me.
Say But wait until the sun comes up.
Just until daybreak.
I want to show you something.
Hasta la muerte, te amo.
Greet death
with a knife at your own neck,
chin up, throat bared,
cardiac in overdrive.
Wear nothing.
Wear nothing.
Say Bring it on ************
Say Only on my terms.
Say nothing
and open your throat.
and bleed to completion.
El final, el final, el final.
This poem © Gabriel Gadfly. Published Oct 29, 2009
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 3:22 PM UTC
My heart is on the pillow
I can not touch your hand.
And precious silence proud of you
My dark room have a band.
It is consist one guitar-bass,
One piano and my voice.
My silence voice, which cry with noise
And moon outside with choice.
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 9:08 AM UTC
I breathe in wild
And candle break her mirror,
Her dark and strange
Unfading royal face
And kind of sky,
Which quickly disappear,
Merged with the night
And smelled of opened gap.
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 7:19 PM UTC
It isn't time to words.
It's time to hear birds.
To forest's noise and cry,
To yellow green which die,
Which run from our blind.
It's time to hidding sun
In clouds of it's mind,
In rare kind of eyes.
In secret raining's wild, is
it all our blame?
This time is to the shame.
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 10:14 AM UTC
Today they say "Goodbye" to someone,
Tomorrow they will say "Farewell, forever"
And the wound in your heart bleeds profusely.
Tomorrow someone returns home,
Only to stand upon the ruins of their own city.
And someone will fall from the top of a crane...
So take care of yourself... Be careful...
Tomorrow morning, someone lying in bed
Will realize that there's no cure for his sickness,
Someone leaving home will get into a car accident.
Tomorrow, somewhere in a hospital
The hand of a young surgeon will slip.
Someone walking in the woods will fall into a mine...
So take care of yourself... Be careful...
Tonight an airplane flies above us,
Tomorrow it will crash into the ocean
And all the passengers will die...
Tomorrow, somewhere, who knows where?
There will be war, an epidemic, a huge blizzard...
And black holes in the vastness of space...
So watch out for yourself, Be careful...
Viktor Tsoi
Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 4:16 PM UTC
A warm place
But the streets are waiting for the footprints of our feet
Stardust on our boots.
A soft armchair, checkered plaid,
A trigger not pulled in time.
A sunny day - in blinding dreams.
Blood type - on the sleeve
My serial number - on the sleeve,
Wish me luck in battle, wish for me
To not stay in this grass,
To not stay in this grass.
Wish me luck, wish me luck!
And there is enough to pay, but I don't want
Victory at any cost.
I don't want to put my leg on anyone's chest.
I would have liked to stay with you,
To just stay with you,
But the star high in the sky is calling me.
Blood type - on the sleeve
My serial number - on the sleeve,
Wish me luck in battle, wish for me
To not stay in this grass,
To not stay in this grass.
Wish me luck, wish me luck
Viktor Tsoi
Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 4:15 PM UTC
White snow, gray ice,
Upon the dry, cracked earth.
A quilt lies on top -
A city in the loop of the road.
Above the city, clouds float by,
Blocking the light of the skies.
Above the city, yellow smoke.
The city stands for two thousand years
Under the light of the star that we call the sun
For two thousand years there is war,
War for no particular cause.
War is in the hands of the young,
Medicine against wrinkled skin.
The blood, the red, red blood,
In an hour is simply earth,
In two it holds grass and flowers,
In three it is once more alive
And warmed by the rays of the star that we call the sun
And we know that it has always been so,
That those who are loved by fate
Are those who live by laws not our own,
Those who are doomed to die young
He can't remember the word "yes," the word "no,"
He can't remember the ranks or the names.
He is capable of reaching the stars,
Discounting that this is a dream
And fall down, singed by the star that we call the sun
Viktor Tsoi
Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 4:14 PM UTC
Yevgeny Yevtushenko
No monument stands over Babi Yar.
A drop sheer as a crude gravestone.
I am afraid.
Today I am as old in years
as all the Jewish people.
Now I seem to be
a Jew.
Here I plod through ancient Egypt.
Here I perish crucified, on the cross,
and to this day I bear the scars of nails.
I seem to be
Dreyfus.
The Philistine
is both informer and judge.
I am behind bars.
Beset on every side.
Hounded,
spat on,
slandered.
Squealing, dainty ladies in flounced Brussels lace
stick their parasols into my face.
I seem to be then
a young boy in Byelostok.
Blood runs, spilling over the floors.
The barroom rabble-rousers
give off a stench of ***** and onion.
A boot kicks me aside, helpless.
In vain I plead with these pogrom bullies.
While they jeer and shout,
"Beat the Yids. Save Russia!"
some grain-marketeer beats up my mother.
0 my Russian people!
I know
you
are international to the core.
But those with unclean hands
have often made a jingle of your purest name.
I know the goodness of my land.
How vile these anti-Semites-
without a qualm
they pompously called themselves
the Union of the Russian People!
I seem to be
Anne Frank
transparent
as a branch in April.
And I love.
And have no need of phrases.
My need
is that we gaze into each other.
How little we can see
or smell!
We are denied the leaves,
we are denied the sky.
Yet we can do so much --
tenderly
embrace each other in a darkened room.
They're coming here?
Be not afraid. Those are the booming
sounds of spring:
spring is coming here.
Come then to me.
Quick, give me your lips.
Are they smashing down the door?
No, it's the ice breaking ...
The wild grasses rustle over Babi Yar.
The trees look ominous,
like judges.
Here all things scream silently,
and, baring my head,
slowly I feel myself
turning gray.
And I myself
am one massive, soundless scream
above the thousand thousand buried here.
I am
each old man
here shot dead.
I am
every child
here shot dead.
Nothing in me
shall ever forget!
The "Internationale," let it
thunder
when the last anti-Semite on earth
is buried forever.
In my blood there is no Jewish blood.
In their callous rage, all anti-Semites
must hate me now as a Jew.
For that reason
I am a true Russian!
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 3:04 AM UTC
Уехать, уехать, уехать,
Исчезнуть немедля, тотчас,
По мне, хоть навечно, по мне, хоть
В ничто, только скрыться бы с глаз,
Мне лишь бы не слышать, не видть,
Не знать никого, ничего,
Не мыслю живущих обидеть,
Но как здесь темно и мертво!
Иль попросту жить я устала -
И ждать, и любить не любя...
Все кончено. В мире не стало -
Подумай - не стало тебя.
13. 7. 64
Мария Петровых
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 6:44 PM UTC
As you pour yourself a scotch
Crush a roach or check your watch
As your hands adjust your tie people die
In the towns with funny names
Hit by bullets, caught in flames
By and large not knowing why people die.
Joseph Brodsky
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 1:16 PM UTC