Krys Aug 9
Luck. Luck treads the line between disaster and survival.
A ball loses momentum on a spinning wheel.
It falls into a pocket.
With one sweep, you’re merely a fool.

Surely, the glory can be regained?
Borrow from those you know. Make a new bet.
Borrow from strangers. Make a new bet.
Make deals with the predators.
Point of no return. You thought they wouldn’t hunt you down?
With one sweep, you’re merely a fool.

We’re all fools here.
This is our lesson of repentance.
We romanced misfortune and she loved us enough to grant us omens of disaster.
With no meaning left in our lives, we are shadows. Shadows that want to survive.

Take the gun.  Raise the barrel to the side of your head.
Maybe fortune will pity you.

They say the greatest luck is dying at the right time.
Is this the right hour? Minute? Second?
A ball loses momentum on a spinning wheel.
It falls into a pocket.

Pull the trigger, fool.
I walk every day like in the desert
I do not know what for
for whom and for what purpose
my existence

I walk every day like in the desert
in search of some answer
in search of some kind of truth
which in fact is not present

I walk every day like in the desert
bright sun beats me
cold of Russian frosts kill
but I'm going and I don't know why


02.04.18
This is
the game of
Russian Roulette
Will people like my poem?
Every unloved attempt is a bullet.
You, the reader, are the finger pressing the trigger.
Unfortunately dropping onto my knees and begging
would be aggravating and desperate.
I must learn to accept the lead
the revolver will place
inside my
skull.
Will you fire the gun today?
Or will you hold back?
It's up to you.
Johnny Noiπ Jun 11
keep   dancing  until u're  gay  &   
     wet,    deep  into       perfect   ass-eating          
     writing  about           blonde   Russian  skanks that    |    
smell  like ass      & dirty                pussy       &
       drink       all day          or               on the     kinds  
of     days  when     wild   boys  like  Ivan 
jump through      the           mirror   w/          
             their    
      lips   blind as   robots;   Igor  disdaining  
pussy for            reality,        speaking while 
     waiting;      yellow means  walk    &        he      met  
her at the  club   & was all set  to be born          
  when        lives  came         running all    raped;  
       the story       filled   in by     Eli        who'd        
walked   the    mothers   to    work   be - side the     

      fallen    
        human  race        leaving       an
      eye  open       to  rape;      turning  
friends  over in          bed         to expose their  
                      brown   married  holes;      
             history   wrote on her            tits & her    
     faces  in magic marker;
           he fucked a  hole in the       
    floor  while        Barbie   danced under   
     water;   showing off       protruding          
pink       butt   flesh                  ,    
     winning   Greek   legs & small,  small   torso      
brought       on by                    dreams   of    the       
Muses;  
                     just   sitting   being a mom   ;
   she'll     lay me  for           sure
         as  science's   sister   Bettie is   cool  
as the ode       contained   in the               
           secret   story  of  Christ   broken &    
          drinking, his   voice raspy from  
   smoking pot;                           that   bitch  Mary n
   used to       be            
             pretty  
      for a schoolgirl
                  but her    arms  are   /  
         weird; still, she's    alive  & moving ;     
         her     best   years were in          middle  school            
        wearing  a miniskirt  
      & talking of long              ago   w/ an    
  air   of      the unknown;
      she    started  to  state  her  daughters  
      ­    were      unseen, but I   read  
            that     dick                            was  eating  
gold &  silver   watches  
     to        abstract   the   ghost from         dawn;
           in the       streets   fucked
                     ladies   beat   move  
           sight   takes   care   buried   happened
             to the prophet's   kiss;  
the            modern   top   noun   loved  
      & remembered    by    whores   centuries
from now in the    
        sweaty   fields of        music   &    |    strange  
burning   lot                 of the                evil   house                of the                American born             Chinese  girl
Johnny Noiπ Mar 23
we all knew Monica was Russian spy; she was rich
but lived like a poor person; always desperate money
for corporate lawyers to perform complicated legal
services she would only hint at & that she could
provide to others but Monica wasn't a lawyer; she's a
spy she says b/c her parents are spies; her birth mother
speaks only Russian although she understands English
I was once told & then asked not to mention it to anyone;
everything was a secret w/ her; I always thought her
adopted mother was a lawyer; a power blonde fashionista
w/ a pleasant personality who'd sometimes stop by in a
limousine to take Monica to first run Broadway show;
it was the first time I ever saw a white limo although the
wood paneled town car had a nicer interior finish

the stretch stopping in front of the tenement
Monica trotting out dressed in head-to-toe Versace:
Monica's adoptive parents are Russian spies;
I didn't know spies could adopt; Monica born Natasha
was from Russia & learned to suppress her
Russian accent attending exclusive American schools
across the country; one or two years here & there;
never more than three anywhere so she was raised
in America after spending her first few years in a
Moscow school for the children of spies; I think she
was selected to be the perfect straight-A American
youth; in her thirties pretending to be seventeen
Monica never did homework but it always got
done & she didn't go to any of our schools; we all
went to different schools during the day & hung
out together at night & on the weekend; Monica was
really smart & beautiful & thought by some to be in
witness protection b/c of her lawyer father's dealings
w/ the Russian mob but how can he be in witness
protection when he's still doing business w/ them;
oh those are just my father's friends; your father's
a gangster I said to her one night & she explained
all the secrecy to me;it  the first time I heard the phrase
skullduggery & when we asked Monica's ex
whatever happened to Monica ; she mentioned
they were moving but suddenly &the whole family
& all their things disappeared; oh, yeh, he says
I helped them move out overnight; they made me
promise not to say where; u know Monica
& her family her spies he blabbed at last;
oh yeh yeh we all knew that drinking beer &
smoking on the stoop; w/o Monica things became dull;
Sean the kid in the IRA went back to Belfast &
couples got married & the crowd broke up;
no one wanted to get investigated & eventually
we all stopped talking about her as if she had
never existed; her whole family were spies that
acted famous & rich & lived under assumed
names; I heard her father speaking once in Russian
but when he saw me looking he started speaking
forced English about the Yankees; I remember
thinking they always tell u to think about baseball
& figured he was on a Russian phone-sex line; but
I guess he figured I was just one of the neighborhood
kids & he knew me & he started speaking Russian
again but more pleasantly, smiling & laughing now;
his disguise must've slipped b/c he was pissed
at the time; standing outside the building beside
the black limousine on a call w/ a 'client' & yelling
at Monica that her skirt was too short; she went back
inside to change but she never came out; we found
out later that after the prom she & few choice friends
had gone to the new club w/o us in that same skirt;
we even couldn't get in that night; Monica was two
separate people; I mean she was two different girls;
I know that sounds crazy but if I mention Monica to
any of my friends to this day they look at me like I've
lost my mind; I've seen the look before; before they
laugh worriedly & say boy, u've got some imagination;
I must have heard boy u've got some imagination at
least three times like that's what they were told to say
& they'd rehearsed it; friends who never knew Monica
nod solemnly before saying u've got some imagination
I can feel too much or nothing at all.
It's all or nothing with me.
It's the way I was brought up to be.
What a curse to live with or for somebody to have to endure me.
I can see why they like to run, loading bullets into the gun.
I'm like a game of Russian roulette.
To be hit or to live with the knowledge of the bullet they will never get.
a bill
of fire
lifted my
queen with
a submarine
arise to
their heights
near the
Bering Sea
now their
democracy in
a gilded
age of
maternity while
in Minsk
they'd sing
Magellan's hymn
A Sussian Spy
Be
A Russian
For one day

Whisper
And paint
Icons

Symbols
In gold
Draped in satin

Beware of hope
It will grip you
Make you into a Mongol

Control your mind
Destroy your abode
Invade the holdfast

Become neat
Organized
Fight to breathe
Rose L Jan 23
[скажите, вы слышите?]
Those bells of the sirens! A lullaby, distant
ringing so deep within my heart, quelling the valves
and commanding me outside! Further!
Into the warm earth.

Off he climbs
Into that thick outside! The air resistant against his legs
that hushes my ears, soft hands that soft my ears
down, down, tiptoes on the ground,
gliding in waves...
D Lowell Wilder Dec 2017
I shred the beets.
Heads of red flicks in the bowl
parged of white now rosé, blushes.
To say the word properly is to nestle the
tongue in the church of the mouth the nave
of clucks tucked under the roof of the palate to
squeeze conjoined shushes and birch noises.
To steam to steep
with the lazy roil of the soup.
Do you recall the crunch of the snow outside our dacha?
The days where ice coated crusts cut
galoshes
sloshed.
The tureen beckons with its fractures.
To predict the future merely gaze into the soup.
How is this to see
a winter of bread and shavings
of fibers sewn rough
of tough, tough coughs that spray rose
petals in the dawn?
Some of my favorite poems are Russian - one in particular Я Вас любил by Pushkin still enchants me. It's a heady poem of deep emotion. This is a vegetable-based tribute.
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