"anton" poems
~I remember...
~For my two sisters
Future lovers
Are not knocking on my doors,
No line ups
Around the corner
Of my house;
The ladder to my window
Lies injured
On yellow
Lawn
Not nurtured,
Down bellow.
On the Queen Anne arm chair
Ashes of my
Fabulous years,
Wireless affairs,
No strings
Unattached
To my violin.
Sketches in the ****
Of lovers past
Are shivering,
Longing for my tapestries,
Trying, in vain, to hide
Under sad sepia.
Portraits, I promised
To paint
To Dorian Gray.
May still age
Given just a little
More time.
On the stage
I, Manon Lescaut, die,
Only sixteen -
Poor Knight De Grieux
Just another year,
please,
That I have not for sale
Anymore.
Pastels and aquarelles
Turned monochrome;
Chronos
Doesn't stop here
For a single moment -
Walks all over.
In the middle of my chaos
23/7
(What's an hour glass
Or more?),
Sleeps
Master Behemoth.
His fur coat
Once luxurious black
Has specks of grey,
One white whisker;
So are three of my hair.
Wise
Sybilla?
I don't think so.
It's not what
It used to be, my Master
Let's go out
To the open
Let's breathe,
Let's see new cats.
On the chopping block,
Let's lose our heads
Let's get lost.
Let's elope together
The weather
Should be
Just rainy-fine
For the Requiem,
For the funeral.
Tree Sisters gone
To the Cherry Orchard,
Uncle Vanya, again,
Left alone on the estate.
Seagull, before rain
Flies over my head
For the last time.
Author Notes
Two of my sisters are gone already.
Anton Pavlovich Chekhov's plays:
Three Sisters
Cherry Orchard
Uncle Vanya
Seagull
...To name just a few. Manon Lescaut by Abbe Prevost, two operas as well, one by Puccini, one by Esprit Auber. "A woman like Manon can have more than one lover." The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Oct 14, 2010
Oct 14, 2010 at 2:07 PM UTC
I squash ant that sinks teeth,
Biting my enormous otherworldly knee
Amidst fray of fleshy fingerprint
Most heroic exoskeleton betrays
A life ended,
Should i wail upon battlefield?
Come aliens forth on scale of mighty gods
What fire
What twist of fate they might bring
Upon silly little
Pink and squishy me
I shall name him,
Heroic Anton.
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 1:27 PM UTC
People attending the London premiere of a new film about Nelson Mandela were told of his death as the closing credits rolled, on 5th December 2013. My new poem is written in honor of the anti-apartheid icon and I invite you to read it here https://www.facebook.com/pages/Lights-Madiba-Action/345492948926266 .
Like it, share it and get privileged access to my writings.
Iulian-Anton Brudiu
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 12:10 PM UTC
now I, Anton, eldest and wisest,
I, nature-appointed leader by age and time,
I call this our first meeting to order
and each shall stand in silence as I read
out the rules and regulations
of this our BOYS ONLY order of OLD RUSSIA,
which I, as my first act as leader, shall name
the Anton Boys Only Group, the name obviously after myself…
And now, Artem stand still and stand at ease as Vladimir here is…
This pose with legs like a soldier's
and with hands at back, back in palm,
this is the way of the obedient follower
though I fear Artem may have a bit of Napoleon in him…
But Anton Boys Only Group we shall be
and in the streets we are destined to meet…
Now for the rules:
I am the leader and I’m always right;
you are the members of the group,
and you will always follow…
now, girls will not be allowed in this group
and no one is to come with any girls
here except me, with Galina once in a while
as she has recently been winking at me in class,
when I do attend class, that is,
and she has sent me notes
to meet her in the old shed past the fields
and once in a while, as I say,
she might be here on our way to said
location during which time
you will all keep guard
and remain as still as the Kremlin guards
or, as I’ve heard, the guards outside
****** England’s Buckingham palace.
Now, Viktor and Georgy, you are hereby fined five coins
for taking a casual attitude while I speak…
Artem, the tallest here after me,
you will be my bearer and cleaner
like carrying things I might have to carry
and dusting my coat before and after meetings
and for which I shall nominate you successor
should I run away with Galina to America…
We shall, however, always remain faithful to Mother Russia
and send you back information as and when necessary;
and also at each meeting, from hence,
each of you will bear gifts for the leader
(who, let me remind you, is myself)
like an apple, a tomato, eggs and sweets
and chicken pieces and such
as and when possible
but always at least one gift each
at each meeting as payment for the privilege
of my leadership;
and meetings will start promptly and be canceled as I wish;
and Vladimir and Bogdan and Andrey
you shall before each meeting, finish such field tasks
as my mother may have assigned me
and which I may then justly apportion to each one of you…
I do not anticipate any questions at this stage our first meeting
and so I announce this meeting over…
And Artem, you might want to dust the coat on my back…
but kindly do ensure your hands are clean first…
Oct 10, 2010
Oct 10, 2010 at 5:47 PM UTC
Dear Ian
The First always tastes like honeyed-sunlight on cheek and windowpane:
first kiss, first cigarette, first rooftop.
I never wanted to come down.
Dear Greyson
Beautiful and empty.
Our hands didn't fit right.
Dear Anton
Thank you for kissing prayers into the crosses on my forearms.
It wasn't enough.
I'm sorry I kept you on your knees.
Dear Eli
**** you.
Dear Wyatt
We were high and you were there.
Your mouth tasted like sour milk
and I was lonely in the morning.
Dear Ian
Snorting coke off my naked body was all you needed.
I think I caught you too late.
Dear Cody
Thanks for the ****
I'm sorry I made you leave--
I couldn't stop looking at the orchid petals falling on my windowsill.
Dear Howard
I never realized my power
until the day I let you finger me in the seasonal section of a CVS.
Dear Sky
Loving you was like loving river currents.
I lost myself in the way you looked at me like
you were looking past me.
I'm still learning how to let go of dead things.
Dear Jessica
I was high on painkillers for the 6 months you tried
to bring me back down.
But if you had a condo on a cloud
I'd have stayed at your place.
Dear Robert
I just needed a prom date.
Don't read into it.
Dear Sarah
You and spring rains are synonymous.
Dear Vanessa
Venus.
Someday I'll come back.
We'll paint piazzas into dusk.
Dear Maya
Your lips were swollen honeysuckle and I was all hummingbird.
I wish you could've held me after.
Dear Alyson
We never met in person,
but the way you glittered behind my phone screen
fogged up the glass with light-hot possibility.
Our timing wasn't right.
Dear Amélie
"On n'aime que ce qu'on ne possède pas tout entier."
Dear Izzy
I would've sewn stars down your backbone.
That night at the End of the World, we held eternity in our fingertips.
or maybe it was just the *****
Dear Brendan
Drunken lapse in judgement.
I'm not "experimenting", I'm actually gay.
Dear Sara
I wish I was looking for something casual.
The Washington Sq. Park fountain will always be holy.
Bless my forehead whenever.
----
Dear Jesse
It's time to fall in love with your palms.
They fit together perfectly.
Plant chrysanthemums in your abdomen
and let yourself bloom again.
Like it's the first time.
Like you owe it to yourself.
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 4:34 PM UTC
There I sit,
On my beautiful Nel,
The big girl that always lights my world.
A Russian Don by blood,
But she’s a Texas cutter to me.
Here we sit,
Watching this wonderful West Texas sunset.
She grazes on some prairie grass;
I chew on a cat-tail.
I wish we could have ridden,
With Jesse and Bill,
And become legends,
Here in these hills.
The canyons would echo our youthful cries,
Of excitement and joy,
While we just ride, run, Live.
Maybe in those days,
Nel could have run in the pastures,
of an old Texas myth,
and I could have wrassled some cows,
to earn the spurs of my grand-father’s,
father.
If we were on the trail,
Drivin’ some Angus and Belgian Blues,
Up north to Kansas City,
And maybe one night,
The boys and I could sit around the fire,
And stare up at the stars,
Wondering which stellar painting,
Looked most like our horse.
I want the times,
When Grand-dad and Nana Ma,
Would sit on their porch,
And gently swing another night away,
Like they had done,
For the last 50 years.
Nel would be my company;
My loyal bride;
While I rode south towards San-Anton’.
And we would meet up with,
Travis and Bowie,
To fight Santa Anna,
As he rushed the ol’ palisade,
Of the mission where I would die.
The Bexar province would weep for we few,
Who stood for the ideals of a noble, new nation.
Yet,
All ideals eventually come and go.
Well, me and Nel,
We ain’t never seen a cattle drive.
We ain’t ever been outside this here pasture.
So our dreams remain dreams,
And our hope remains void.
My Cowboy Dreams,
And her beautiful mane,
Grow faint and grey,
Every Single Day.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 1:43 AM UTC
Halloween:Truth or Tricks??
Halloween evolved from "All Hollows" Eve. It originated from the pagan holiday honoring the dead. On All Hallows Eve, the veil between the world of the living and the world of the dead was thin. It allowed the souls of the dead to come back to earth and walk among the living
Halloween is a religious holiday belonging to the Roman Catholic Church. ... The holiday is “All Hallows Day” (or “All Saints Day) and falls in Nov.
Jehovah's Witnesses: They don't celebrate any holidays or even birthdays. Some Christians: Some believe the holiday is associated with Satanism or Paganism, so are against celebrating it. Orthodox Jews: They don't celebrate Halloween due to its origins as a Christian holiday. Other Jews may or may not celebrate it
While the Bible doesn't mention Halloween specifically, it does, of course, have lots to say about the forces of evil. ... Scripture is full of stories where good and evil are pitted against each other, as well as Bible verses that offer wisdom about facing darkness, deception, and fear in your own life.
Samhain (pronounced 'sow'inn') is a very important date in the Pagan calendar for it marks the Feast of the Dead. It is also celebrated by non-Pagans who call this festival Halloween. ... Samhain has been celebrated in Britain for centuries and has its origin in Pagan Celtic traditions.
A few observations:
HALLOWEEN is the most important day of the year for Devil worshippers, according to the founder of the Church of Satan, and everyone else has been urged to avoid celebrating this “dark” day
Anton LaVey founded the Church of Satan in the US in 1966.
He was the country’s most prominent Satanist up until his death in 1997 and authored several books, including The Satanic Bible, The Satanic Rituals, The Satanic Witch, The Devil's Notebook, and Satan Speaks.
In the Satanic Bible, Mr LaVey wrote: "After one's own birthday, the two major Satanic holidays are Walpurgisnacht (May 1st) and Halloween.”
Walpurgisnacht, or Saint Walpurgis Night, is a German annual event which is known in German Folklore as Witches Night.
Even today, the Church of Satan recognises Halloween as an extremely important day for evil.
The occultists’ website states: “Satanists embrace what this holiday has become...
Oct 17, 2020
Oct 17, 2020 at 9:36 AM UTC
He bought me my first binder for Christmas with the money he borrowed. Too bad his parents don't even know who he his. They spell his name as if femininity can be felt through the words of his given birth name. C for the courage he has to go through , h for his pronouns. R for every word they speak he will always make faking it look revolutionary. I, I will never be as strong as him. S, do they see that he is not their daughter but their son? Their emotions dripped like candle wax slowly melting and hardening against each other and for them it was their safety, their dreamland when reality just couldn't feel any worse. His parents scoffed and said that he must go to therapy like the confessionals he's forced into each sunday. His sins he must beg god to forgive but they don't see him like I do. A, for the days he can't appeal to them he appeals to her to make their refuge. N, not for nuture but nature this is all human nature. T, time, he must wait to be who he is. O, I will always know him as an overcomer. N, he can't muster up the words to say never. Even when they mispronounce his name and give him the wrong gender. He will merely play dress up for them and they will never know the Anton that I know
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 2:08 AM UTC
25 years into life on this planet. A quarter of a ******* century. I've attended more friend's funerals than weddings, a sad typicality of the generation I arose in beautiful concert with.
This strange fact reminds me of the opening lines from Allen Ginsberg's Howl:
"I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the ***** streets at dawn looking for an angry fix."
I too sought this same angry fix, but removed myself from the clutter once death stalked the corners of my own addled streets. I too was destroyed by this madness, but given the gift of a second chance upon which to reform... and the guilt that stretches its legs so cavalierly, so callously, across the resting stool of my mind reminds me of this every day I do not practice sobriety as a dogma (just as I simultaneously recognize I should never accept it--or anything else--as dogma).
It's been two strange years since Anton passed, and he still haunts me as the interpersonal ghost of the relationship we had together which, with his death, has become embodied as said ghost sans the need for either of our particular presence. Perhaps this felt phantom of our collective essence will continue to waft throughout our globular strangeness we call the Earth until all observation becomes impossible for lack of any remaining observers. I loved you once, and I will love you always, and thus will always love you until "always" becomes as relative as "once upon a time."
"Early 17th century: from Greek exēgēsis, from exēgeisthai ‘interpret’, from ex- ‘out of’ + hēgeisthai ‘to guide, lead’."
I read myself and "it's" or "him's" reality like others read scripture itself.
I am neither hetero nor homosexual. I am bisexual, and many (even within the tight 'gay' community) do not understand this when I give an attempt towards a definition of a monogamous relationship, despite it's polyamorous-ness in its long-term oprative-ness, ability, and identity.
A monogo(mish) identity. Something which proves it's loyalty and is only taken in as an operative contingent of oneself thereof. Couldn't be more favor in their flavor, so this is simply a translation of my multiplicity of romances in my monetary destitution (not that anyone has to pay me for anything lol).
May 26, 2019
May 26, 2019 at 12:41 AM UTC
Anton is no stranger on being late
No matter the time nor the date
Whenever you have made plans
Anton will arrive as late as he can
Not familiar with the concept of time
Does not bother to even try
The only day that he will be on time
Probably be the day that Anton dies
Nov 13, 2018
Nov 13, 2018 at 8:38 PM UTC
mottled bookmarks pin
tiny fragments of mine.
pages unfold from within
and resist to curve behind the time.
grimaces fade into memoirs.
suit coats on petit bourgeois
wink at my shredding guard vest of tin.
to wipe off those band-aids,
to slim my baggage sutcase,
to bury the laundry in silk waters is to see
it's lifting aloft no casting aground
so I murmur aloud shunning the clout.
a biting leech tot under battings of the brick.
me overlooking my hot spice of a boy
is cringy to mimic a sickening coy.
seems like I'm a worm and blood I eat and drink
to transmiss leukocytes all over the globe
when my maw is stuffed and my bulge bobes.
two sides of me rubbed along are two poles.
I bite far and I link two organisms
meds' substitution with itchy feelers
and a deep chested sweetheart, him I fret.
when to run my slabber in his blood
is to dehydrate and self-slenderize me?
awe-eyed lover man slim'd my tube in size.
me be loved for a healer then be dumped
but it's in my cytoplasm and in my blood
to bottom the gutters as if by dirt under the fingernails.
a biting thot inside the bloodsucker ***
seen by people as a nocuous germ.
they may wash their hands with a laundry soap
everybody is no island, I unrobe my cloth.
to cut sheets from life diaries isn't tougher any more.
© 4 days ago, Anton nature • humor • personal • societ
Aug 22, 2019
Aug 22, 2019 at 6:12 PM UTC
he sits in that diner and he is
two point five decades' worth of emotion
compressed into a single, nervous point:
the relentless tapping
of keratin kissing linoleum.
he hears everything:
fingers curled round coffee cups
money whispering out of wallets
his thoughts clattering around like ice cubes
in the lemonade he asked for.
(his glass sweats, and so does he.)
one down. there's ice on his tongue, melting, and
he's feeling the weight of it
like the boxes crammed into his rattle-trap car,
like a pin pressed into a corkboard map,
like his signature at the bottom of a new lease.
(like a warning, and a hand on his wrist:
"you ain't gonna like it there, anto.")
last sour, pulpy sip as he decides
to pay it no mind and to play it
by ear. even now the distant city bustles
and he'll do ninety on the highway to catch it,
metamorphic in his fragile metal chrysalis.
May 20, 2018
May 20, 2018 at 8:31 PM UTC
I read lots of Russian lit (in translation, of course) while in Viet-Nam
I understood poor, young Raskolnikov
And read all I found by Anton Chekhov
Remembered nothing about Bulgakhov
Heard naughty whispers about Nabokov
Thrilled to the Cossacks in old Sholokov
And then I learned about Kalashnikov –
This, I decided, is where I get off!
Moc Hoa (pronounced something like “mock wah”) is a now-prosperous town on the Song Vam Co Tay near the border with Cambodia. In 1970 it was rather down at the heels and was a center of military activity, including mercenaries presumably controlled by the C.I.A.
Mar 24, 2018
Mar 24, 2018 at 5:28 PM UTC
i have a box
within,
a message lies for you
these are the secret words
to open the box
when the sun rises
you and I will meet
and when the wind blows
you will know my hearts words
Mar 26, 2025
Mar 26, 2025 at 2:47 PM UTC