nothing warms the heart as a butter-scrub
of prokofiev on a dull & uneventful life,
i'm still to fathom the mastering mystery,
but lieutenant kijé romance
always makes my ***** into an omelette,
and for all the wrong reasons:
i like it, joked aside, it almost like
watching a monkey play the trumpet
in the odd joke of jazz quarter (
antithesis of the punk power 3)
with the elephant... ****... what would
the elephant do given the ability
of a trunk?!
          tap dance, or attempt a pirouette?
i love the she said he said questions,
she said: madam butterfly, he said
      la traviata...
he cried, she simply stared at two russian
girls making airs,
talking handbags and their usual
schoolyard deal about a chubby nose,
which she did, and we would have
wishes to actually bite...
         i hate those nationalist tourists,
chopin means as much to as a need
for chop-sticks...
                          its 4 30 in the morning
and i still have to drink something...
and do i love her?
well, i love writing about her quirks,
would i love siberia?
would i love anywhere without her?
i'd probably love dr. zhivago in either
spanish, or kazah...
     hands up: i am having
a literary love affair, and i pray to
gott that she's making a competitive
counter to my shallow affair of not
inviting enough pubescent imagination
counter imaginative girls to my camp...
that despised number by men,
you know they're only teen girls
keeping the jailbirds swarming in jitter...
they do grow up...
      and then you throw in a fake
muse into the bargain,
and then you keep hiding the real muse,
more and more,
               her nose becomes your
obsession, foremost because it's russian,
and second-most because she wants
to be rid of it...
     say it how it is, heaven awaits those
who manage to upkeep a truth on earth,
hell is filled with perpetuated liars,
and there's no greater story that the devil
minds than a lie upon lie,
upon the grandest of lies: that
his realm is but a poetic "indifference"...
i will drag my bride into the depth of
behemoth and call it bohemia...
     i will have my words: forgive me
echo by the church bells of the church
of mariacki in cracow...
           she can argue all the wants,
she will be as unwilling at my quest for
that eternity tasted in st. petersburg
once upon a time...
        and all that muzak near the fountainheads
will means at little as the fact that:
prokofiev was actually loved...
and that tchaikovsky was a degenerate
peasant...
    and for ever what my poetry i wrote,
she reaches her 80th b.d.,
       i will not mind the same "respect",
i've visited a brothel...
   came s.t.d. free...
           if there are 72 virgins waiting
the islamic martyrs,
   i'm trying to keep count of the prostitutes
in the harem of crusaders...
i just about scratched off the word malta
from a t-shirt, just so i could get
the hospitalier crux remaining...
       and have a field trip of double-glossing
in mirror the fervent journalistic
        somewhat, or other of "compensation";
then again,
              verbis ultimatus, est verbis omni
dignitas custodia;
don't even ask me how i conjured up
the phrase,
     unless you replicate the same in vino,
and call in vitro veritas / in vivo veritas
to question.