"kiev" poems
.*i guess a loss of subscriptions is, somehow, a badge of honor, namely? i somehow managed to attach a screwdriver to my words... why? read below... English women consider motherhood to be a job... how ******* demeaning! gone are the days of womanhood attaining the stature of god, in the Christian methodology of encompassing the pivot of lady Madonna... perhaps a too high peddle-stool? i guess so... i'm not usurping the female status, but elevating a female stature, deeming motherhood an UNESCO status? seems it's too much... for some people... who make it necessary to befriend their shadow, and travel to the hinterlands.*
just your atypical pedantry,
a translator's subscript comment -
who's richard rojcewicz's...
regarding what?
heidegger...
das volk,
and the three derivatives -
volkhaft (populist),
volklich (communal)
und?
völkisch (folkish) -
i'm starting to suspect that
i'm tapping in the all things folk....
unconsciously, favoring folk
music...
see, us central europeans,
we bunch together and share
the most odd similarities -
i never thought that the song
herr mannelig could be translated
from Swedish - as it was
translated into German...
then again... Vikings founded Kiev...
and all these loan-words
of Germanic origin in Polish...
the only Anglo loan-word
that i know of, is, weekend...
hence, das volk, people -
by the way... German has "too many"
definite articles,
and only one ein - or eine -
is that the same rule as in Ęnglish?
i.e. N
in an example,
rather than in a counter example?
two vowels adjacent in separate
word, sitting across from the grand
chasm of... a spacing itch?
but look at German, i never get it...
DAS DIE DER...
is there an aesthetic difference,
and only an aesthetic difference
to mind?
bewildering...
if there is such a thing as a western
civilization...
that sometime
pompous obnoxiousness,
fair enough... no problem:
but learn to hide it,
feel it, rather then feed it...
it's not a question of a civilization,
but more...
an answer to what is less
civilization, and more... a chore...
just like western women,
notably the english women
call motherhood a, "job"...
it's a... wait... a job?
doubt was big in classic philosophy
of the Cartesian schematic...
so no one knows that
the French existentialists
brought in negation,
as the driving force to replace
doubt?
who the hell sees doubt
these days?
either the know it alles -
or the hush-hush crowd...
motherhood is a... job?
well... then i guess, being a man...
western civilization,
by that standard of logic...
can't be anything more...
than a.... ******* chore!
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 8:33 AM UTC
I wrung my hands under my dark veil. . .
"Why are you pale, what makes you reckless?"
-- Because I have made my loved one drunk
with an astringent sadness.
I'll never forget. He went out, reeling;
his mouth was twisted, desolate. . .
I ran downstairs, not touching the banisters,
and followed him as far as the gate.
And shouted, choking: "I meant it all
in fun. Don't leave me, or I'll die of pain."
He smiled at me -- oh so calmly, terribly --
and said: "Why don't you get out of the rain?"
Kiev, 1911
4.2k
Pain
Pain
Pain
Pain
Pain.
Pain,
Pain
Pain
(Pain)
Pain--
Pain
Pain
Pain
Pain
Pain pain painpainpain
Pain pain pain
Pain pain
Pain.
Pain with pain
Pine and pain
And sick
Pain-Ill death-clock
Tick tick ticks
Nothing to say
Anymore
Pain pain. Pain
Pain with feathers
How pain and why pain
And will be and never was pain
Pain in your shoes,
In a shower
On a floor
Pain
In a garden
Pain
With your tea
Pain in your eye
As you drive
Along
We must be terrible
We must be heinous
Viscous, meticulous,
We are not.
But pain pain pain
I. Can not sleep
As they sanction drone
Strikes on children
I. can not sleep
As a
Ghostly ether summons
Across lakes in dream
I. Can't think
I. can feel like a Cyprus
Upon a grave
Love love love
Love love love love
Love love love love
Death exists
Life is in brief moments
Where the dead
Drag in front of you
Bleeding, broken
Forever lost in this abyss
Grafted from a tree
In another world
Oh, my love.
Oh my love,
As I know it true
In bent knees at dawn
Whispers evermore in my ear
Beyond graves and atom bombs
Test pilots
Test tubes
Test
Pain in your chest
In your mouth
Rotted flesh
Rotted fits of aging
Agony which
Is pain, exquisite
Like a needle
Precise like
A
Nuclear accident
I. Can't sleep
As things fly above my head
My eye
Leaving me in the dark
Leaving me in a tub
Leaving me in a gas task
Mustard gas and Venus
Drowned in calm water
Out, out, out,
Number 1.
Nitrous oxide
Psalms, palms,
Save little girls
In dresses know
As I walk by a snowglobe
Oh, my love
How
I am sick of questions with an
Answer I know
But not quite
Not, quite
And death will solve
All power
Like forks
In an outlet
u r a beautiful dawn
At sunset
My eyes are tired
It needs to heal
It needs to heal
D. E. A. (D)
In a straw or dollar
O.K.
oh, Kay
Oh, Natalie
I dot the "I" in your
Name in my brain
In my bones leaving me
Aloft in dream,
I dream and weep
I dream and weep
Pain
Pain
Pai. N.
Kiev
Leaving
Pain
Pain. Pain. no. 1
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 1:48 AM UTC
i care, i really do...
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha...
no, i do...
i'm trying...
ha ha...
i'm just imagining what
that one word
looks like in Hebrew...
the...
ha-shem...
i.e.
the-name....
laughing, but at the same time
saying the definite article
over, and over, and over again...
the the the the... v'eh v'eh v'eh...
"point"?!
what point?!
calling a cactus a *******
cactus?
or calling it
an semiticl headscarf?
which is which?
a skirt just covering
the knee?!
better ask your women
to wear gloves...
i seem to enjoy the fact
that the most ****** part of
a woman, are her hands...
geisha hands...
and wrists i could look
at like i might an enjoy an hour
with a bottle of wine...
aha!
tell me...
what's the difference between
a didgeridoo...
and a modern, nordic shamanic chant
akin to to the berserker warcry
in one of
heilung's song,
notably
alfadhirhaiti
where the audience go mad
with fervor & fury...
because didn't you know,
they say:
don't take to d.n.a. ancestor testing,
watch what you absorb culturally...
from what i heard...
the ugly vikings founded
the city of Kiev,
so they must have passed past my parts...
hidden Baltic -
grazing mother of soured milk
that intermediates
a stasis prior to yogurt -
no wolves in england...
i'll pet a a fox therefore...
scoop and swoon -
the baronical patience of
a shadow admirer.;
even if the Jews have abandoned
Europe...
what the left?
is beside the origin of what
the crucifix constitutes...
even if the Jews abandoned
Europe, what they pressed was
the antagonism of Greece -
they pursued ancient Greece -
until the world, and all matters Latin -
stood to understand -
the Jews left Europe,
abandoning the pursuit of Greek -
penitent people, noble people...
until the library of Nag Hammadi
emerged from
the sands of both time,
and Egypt...
noble people... penitent people...
these Israelites -
these Jobs of disgruntled time -
Hiob, Yob, Hiob, Job...
i am barren in wanting to "forgive"
the Jews...
how they pursued ancient Greek
to avenge the emergence of
the Second Troy in Rome...
with Rome...
no Greek will stand on these words
with an Achilles heel...
the Jews pursued the Greek
revisionism of their testament
long enough...
as what Nero found hilarious...
i take to wind and soul with
a drunk mind,
but a sober heart.
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 8:38 PM UTC
A is for Athens
B is for Berlin
C is for Cairo
D is for Dublin
E is for Edinburgh
F is for Fukishima
G is for Guangzhou
H is for Helsinki
I is for İstanbul
J is for Johannesburg
K is for Kiev
L is for London
M is for Madrid
N is for New York
O is for Oslo
P is for Paris
Q is for Quito
R is for Riga
S is for Shanghai
T is for Tokyo
U is for Ulan Bator
V is for Vancouver
W is for Washington
X is for Xianyang
Y is for Yerevan
Z is for Zagreb
Travel the world
see these places
meet new people
make new friends
take photos
make memories
always be happy
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 7:29 PM UTC
Five March, Березень, пятый, these
clouds, butterflies, this old anger and
this rotten coffee *** Mold and clouds.
The insufferable beauty of potholes, we walk Yulitsa Kikvidze
and note buildings blotched with satellite dishes
(mushroom sprouts from Soviet brick) concrete
proof that we exist. Yesterday, I say
I will not be a prime squared again
for seventy-two years: happy birthday, маленькая кошка! Snowlit
clouds, ice and broken asphalt, springtime in Kiev is all
disappointed dogs, life after love.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 3:15 PM UTC
.*of course i dream i fame, who doesn't dream of either fame or fortune... but... i'm sane enough to want to achieve that sort of stature, postmortem... what? with all the celebrity culture big brother ******** who the hell seeks fame while still alive? oh... well... there are the countless examples...*
and why would i take an ancestry test
of my D.N.A. make-up?
i remember the first conversation
i had with the father of my
first girlfriend...
how many famous Poles (Polaks...
do i look like something akin
to an anorexic waving a *******
flag?) there were...
i forgot Copernicus...
i forgot Marie Curie...
i forgot Chopin...
**** i forgot my own name
when i saw my first girlfriend's
sister walk down the stairs...
why would i do D.N.A. testing?
i just looked at what we eat...
and i mean we, truly,
it's called haggis in Scotland,
it's called black pudding
in England,
and it's also called
czarna kiszka (black intestines)
in Poland...
the Vikings founded Kiev
after all...
i like Nordic music, take a guess...
take a while...
my maternal surname is
Batuk... which is a Bohemian
variant of the Polak Batóg...
so a mix of Czech and...
Viking? the Goths...
if i had the time, and also the time
reference to reply to my first girlfriend's
father... while i was rudely
interrupted by the nymph that was
her sister... it's still a dream to me...
or what's called an arranged marriage
in India...
well... i would reply...
and how many Nobel literature
laureates... came from... England?
deathly silence...
you're right...
you're importing all this ******
post empire post colonial
perspectives and you have...
0 Nobel laureates in
the category of literature...
none!
zero! nil! oh!
yeah...
oh... really?
yes!
zilch... so zip-it-up, shrimpy.
i take certain words to heart...
sharpens my memory,
i'm not offended...
i just remember better...
you sometimes require certain
rubrics that are exclusive
and do not include
the rubrics of formal education...
this memory?
oh...
2003.
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 7:26 PM UTC
My whole adult life,
I've been running into people
unexpectedly on street corners
and having somewhat profound
conversations in odd languages.
Consider the guy I spoke with in broke *** English
at the bus station in Jacksonville,
or the girl from Kiev I happened upon in
a very expensive gentleman's club in Seattle.
Herat was also a very strange place to find
oneself in, Dari and Pashto and Russian and God
knows what else might be run into.
The wonderful thing about all of the
ridiculous places I've found myself in at
one time or another over the very hungry years
is that no matter what language or background
we came from, if there was ***** we got along.
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 5:12 AM UTC
"Did you want to smoke that cigarette?"
Mrs. Prine asked as she covered her skin
in a black velvet nightgown.
"That'd be good. Just to be outside."
"Right. It's pleasant this evening."
Harvey climbed out of the sweat-drenched
sheets, slid into his jeans, tossed on a t-shirt,
and stumbled behind the widow Prine.
The field behind Mrs. Prine's home
stood tall -- a rich green sea, with
islands of yellow dandelions and
splatters of Indian paintbrushes.
The two sat down in the tall field.
Mrs. Prine closely watched Harvey's
moves.
Her eyes followed him with
gentle observation and understanding--
much like his own mother.
A cloud of dust perpetually hung over
the Prine place.
Mr. Prine chose the abode
to escape the hum of cars and exhaust-teeming air,
but his reconnaissance was poor.
Mr. Prine picked a house that was less than a mile
from Kiev, Oklahoma's hidden gem:
Sugar's Sweethearts.
Sugar's Sweethearts prided itself on being
the only strip club in 50-miles.
The girls were much older than young,
the ******* suffered from much more sag than they did once,
and the bar sold nothing
but light beer and throat-dicing whiskey.
"I think Cindy is going to live with me for awhile," Mrs. Prine's voice whispered then dissolved in vapor. Harvey sat on her words a moment,
"Your daughter?"
"Yes."
"I thought she just had a kid. You acted like it was all fine and dandy
less than an hour ago."
"It is fine. I don't mind. Her husband cheated on her. *******
"What about--"
"Us? Harvey, I know better than to believe this means anything remotely tangible."
"It's our escape, Mrs. Pri--dammit--Margaret."
"Sure. You and I have a healthy understanding of our needs,
while the rest of this overly-religious town
empties its restlessness at Sugar's."
The suns rays bulletholed through the clouds.
Harvey put out his cigarette on an anthill.
An interstate of ants led Harvey's eyes to
a dead blue jay.
Flies and ants alike covered the bird's body.
"I love you, Margaret," Harvey got up,
dusted off his jeans,"See ya Monday."
"I'll see you then, Harvey."
May 26, 2011
May 26, 2011 at 2:58 PM UTC
I left my heart back in Kiev,
found my soul in South Korea.
I dreamed of the northern lights,
and saw a shooting star in Paris.
I lost my virginity in Ibiza,
drank too much up in Dublin.
I ran in the streets of Ljubljana,
and drove with windows down in Sydney.
May 30, 2018
May 30, 2018 at 6:21 PM UTC
Poor Viktor Hartmann!
All that remained of his towering soul
were visions pressed on to paper
hanging in a St. Petersburg gallery.
Mussorgsky advanced his lumbering frame
along the gallery halls
searching for his lost friend.
Sonic images formed in the composer’s mind
singing replicas of Hartmann’s icons:
*An old castle,
Children quarreling,
An ox resisting the yoke,
The Great Gate of Kiev.*
Mussorgsky’s notes sound and vanish
as ephemeral as life itself -
passing into the ether only to live anew
with each successive performance.
Viktor lives!
October, 2006
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 1:07 PM UTC
To her who knows who she is.
I realize If you Donetsk in this world you don’t get,
so I thought about it Turin those nights away.
My mind would Rome.
As in to walk Cologne down Rhodes
my feet haven't wandered Faro while.
It seems you have the Kiev my heart,
Zagreb a Piza it in the Palma your hand,
Nevada let go but to keep for all time.
I’d been longing for York kiss,
Hungary to have you Lyon next to me;
thinking how Nice it would be
for you to Guinea your arms,
And wrap them around my Jersey.
Reno that in the Split of distance,
we are hanging on to;
‘We Chelsea how it goes.’
I Bern a little Kos knowing
Havana wait for those crucial words means
I don’t get to Hanover a love
you’d never get Bordeaux having.
When Ireland and you Symi
you’ll see that I don’t Minsk my words.
You’ll sea I was never in the-Nile,
so Danube worry about that.
I want to Brighton your days
and Tokyo somewhere we could be
kings and Queens.
I hopes that where this Texas;
we’d be eventually
Edinburgh place to call home.
Gdansk and Lodz of love….
You know who
Sep 14, 2017
Sep 14, 2017 at 9:07 AM UTC
Poor Viktor Hartmann!
All that remained of his towering soul
were visions pressed on to paper
hanging in a St. Petersburg gallery.
Mussorgsky advanced his lumbering frame
along the gallery halls
searching for his lost friend.
Sonic images formed in the composer’s mind
singing replicas of Hartmann’s icons:
An old castle,
Children quarreling,
An ox resisting the weight of its cart,
The Great Gate of Kiev.
Mussorgsky’s notes sound and vanish
as ephemeral as life itself -
passing into the ether only to live anew
with each successive performance.
Viktor lives!
October, 2006
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 1:42 PM UTC
Перке-пута, Лук-пук и Диг-пик
Увлажняли друг другу язык,
Под увесистой тенью фиг
Аргонавты точили тупик.
Вот Медея, а вот Штрык-штрык,
Млеет киви над Дамой пик,
Рвет рогатку на части бык,
А-ну, нахуй в кроватку, Брик!
👉 Bloch-Bauer & Adele · 2020 · Signature Privée
Aug 1, 2025
Aug 1, 2025 at 7:43 PM UTC
I met a young woman named Megan
Who's either laughing or grinning
Whenever she's near
She spreads serious cheer
And then she gets on with the mopping.
I know a young lady named Ivy
Whose kids are constantly smiley
Her calm and good grace
Pervades the tent space
From Monday to late on a Friday
I know a great lady called Abi
Who's started an interesting hobby
As well as her teaching
Cooking and singing
She now does professional cleaning
I met a dear woman named Bev
Who won't look at a Chicken Kiev
She says she prefers
To bake flap jack squares
And fry up some great eggy bread
I met a dear woman called Debbie
Whose mood is consistently peppy
She readily hugs
All her old chums
And makes new friends in a jiffy
Now Rachel is a woman of class
All you need do is ask
She'll readily help
And if nothing else
She'll be ready to fill up your glass
I met a dear lady named Gwen
She's a perfect motherly hen
She cares on instinct
Her fashion is dis-tinct
And she scored a perfect round 10
I've met a great bloke called Mark
Who's been heard to pass a remark
That despite all attempts
To live life in a tent
It's an idea that Abi has parked.
Aug 5, 2017
Aug 5, 2017 at 4:30 PM UTC
/////////
She carries silent corpses
But
She does not weep
(She cannot feel -- she cannot care
Any more )
She says
BETTER OFF DEAD
•
She looks each empty eye
Thru to You
And starts to speak
But she is too weak
And just falls down
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 10:40 PM UTC
Кобылки сходили с дистанции,
Ликовала только Констанция,
Кто-то стал ура-визажистом,
Колхозницей с мужем стилистом.
И только насосная станция
Неслась по тропе террористов,
В тапок к последней инстанции —
Хуяк — и в дамках с министром.
👉 Bloch-Bauer & Adele · 2020 · Signature Privée
Aug 2, 2025
Aug 2, 2025 at 1:17 AM UTC
A pointedness,
when the lead in my legs weighs a little less
there are wings to my feet
and I miss a beat
I am floating now
wondering mostly how
I will get down.
A pointedness, when
the scales weigh a bit more but
we're getting less,
this is no way to live
if we don't give
they will take
and they take all we've got,
it's not the way to go on but
what else can we do
'not much', someone said and that someone's now dead
no locks on his box
there is nothing to steal.
I stole a stoal from a coal hole in Coventry
wore it for all to see
actually I
never took it for the look it gave,
it kept me warm from the cold.
As useless as a pointedness is abandonment
in a tenement,
one toilet for fifty
quite filthy,
dark stairways to nowhere that you'd want to go.
One man's Kiev is another man's Kremlin
and that's the gremlin
that irks me so.
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 1:31 PM UTC
Друг другу дрочили мальчики,
Девоньки мыли уши,
И по трубам водоканальчика,
Согревались в зимнюю стужу.
Стекались к морю, дурачились,
По столу стучали стаканчики,
Вот это мы расхуячились,
ЕбАные барабанщики.
👉 Bloch-Bauer & Adele · 2020 · Signature Privée
Aug 1, 2025
Aug 1, 2025 at 9:18 PM UTC
Because unfortunately, dogs are family.
You want to go to Australia, I'm sorry,
on Monday, especially in English, gold,
leather, mountains, many dreams. I'm very happy,
I think this is something very important.
Now, the young man is very hot, naked,
in Africa and all over the world. Once again,
all the rules have been provided, this game is very good.
Enjoy the game, enjoy the sea and change
to the children's water.
I cannot do this, and I will not believe in God
and at the same time it works. The water windows
are always large. I also love Chinese, I can talk
to my friend every day, listen to flowers, flowers,
flowers, fun and caution, since they do not grow,
I can do it. For ******* men and animals.
Australian forests every minute of the day,
month and year. We love the colors in our lives,
but there are also new parks, creative talent, parks,
flower gardens and parks. In other words,
the headphones, in other words, are excellent.
It will promote the water, unless you feel this relationship,
but during the dream when the prostitutes
of China and Taiwan flourish, you can find friends;
relatives and friends in the Chinese days.
Not his parents. The flowers have flowers;
Artists paint tiles. Listen to her hair
and **** her hair. Buildings, feelings,
humans, dirt and animals. But not impossible.
My body is white, white, clean and with bones
of chikatiene. I also like stars. There are no new colors.
Brazil, Australia, ****** in Australia
and everything in life. The Pacific Ocean
is at the end of the river. After sending them,
they listened to their victims. I believe in Latin work.
Day, all day, ****** of glory and diversity.
Smile at the baby when the baby is warm,
or water arrives or when the guards arrive.
I have a bush and a chika. I want to get a shadow
***** and a soul. But now I'm not in heaven,
I do not believe in my fingers of life.
Pineapple in the yard, dust of ****** and dust.
The same romantic love. Good stories,
especially in desert sports. Do not do the heart of God.
The eclipse is very small on the wall.
Kiev is very snowy. Heartbeats and Africans openly,
people and long-term benefits of China.
True gold Listen to your ears, ears and ears.
In addition, the predictions are made in two different worlds.
But this game is good. Enjoy books, love,
be ****** and the moon. After discovering the gold,
their children gathered the people and the ******
changed the water, but they did not escape.
I spoke directly on the skin, *******
and I had no hope of going to sleep. It is usually
raining, water and water. Listen to soccer
and ****** listen to your genius. Future transfers,
future events, childcare and parents.
But it will not disappear. Every day I like friends,
friends and ****** parents every day. Beautiful flowers, flower buds
Feb 2, 2019
Feb 2, 2019 at 6:42 PM UTC
На битбоксе гоняла "Тоску",
Тоска — ваша соска.
Серьёзно? И зачем тебе этот «Оскар»,
Если ты в колхозе присоска?
Сексоваттов тебе не хватает,
И признаюсь я — жопа плоска.
Голый Вася и медный фраер,
Эй, здарова, бичи — всё просто.
👉 Bloch-Bauer & Adele · 2020 · Signature Privée
Aug 1, 2025
Aug 1, 2025 at 7:53 PM UTC
The bombs fall over Kiev.
Silence! Snow ashes.
Uncomfortable muzzle as it
Settles on Moscow.
The bombs fall over Kiev.
Clanking, chewing the fat.
Bumbling Boris huffs and puffs
As he fingers his ear and fumbles
His pants out of his mouth crack.
The bombs fall over Kiev.
Babies cry, smothered by fear.
Old Joe struggles to forsake his afternoon nap,
While old “Mac” Donald continues to quack and be a quack.
Fittingly synonymous with a sharp burst of wind.
The bombs fall over Kiev.
And yet the skies are silent.
The West whip out their dic-Boom-Boom-tionaries
And stumble and grumble over the worth of human life.
They danced this dance quite recently,
But there’s always room for cha-cha-cha
And grinding out a lower price.
The clock ticks louder – BOOM, BOOM BOOM,
But only for the powerless.
And the bombs fall over Kiev.
Pow! Bang! Bang! That small, old man
In his big red house plays with his toy soldiers,
And his toy towns,
And doesn’t half throw it all out of the pram.
Butlers and maids scramble
To make sense of the nonsense
And the egg on their faces just for you.
Incoherent ramblings of a paltry rich fool.
And yet that’s the sound of the world flying by,
The sound of the world’s greatest tool:
The grasping hands of paltry rich fools.
And the bombs fall over Kiev.
And Palestine. And Yemen.
And the dinosaurs still make a mean cocktail.
And it’s all so ****** predictable.
Exasperated gasps…
The rest of us just look goggle-eyed,
And hashtag flags, and thoughts and prayers,
And throw our paltry money wondering when
It all became so helpless, and why
We still pay for the merry-go-round
When it’s so completely broken.
We scramble to put back our fallen teeth
And kick our brothers to the curb for shelter
Under a wet, cardboard box –
(If you fold it over it provides more cover from the rain,
But the benefit of boxes, of course,
Is that they can completely fit over your head.
The noise is easier to drown out in the dark.)
And the bombs still fall over Kiev.
In broken hospitals and apartment blocks
And schools and churches
Hearts thunder,
And brave Ukrainians hear the noise
And the silence.
Mar 17, 2022
Mar 17, 2022 at 10:31 AM UTC
Before the week is out, World War Three could come and go
It will only last one hour, an hour of Death and Woe
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Revelation chapter eighteen, “one hour” thrice is said
In just one hour just one hour, fifty million could be dead
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It wouldn’t be just in Kiev, “Babylon” will burn
The land of Greed and Lust, the Prophets they did spurn
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Not the Babylon of old, the Babylon today
Did you ever think ever think…it is the USA
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 4:17 AM UTC
Любовница или наёмница,
На подсосе — верная женщина.
Суровых будней сподвижница —
Она рядом, тихо играется.
В игрушки свои наивные,
Что Воин Света подкинул ей —
Конфета на палке, липкая...
Иди на хуй, милая девочка.
👉 Bloch-Bauer & Adele · 2020 · Signature Privée
Aug 1, 2025
Aug 1, 2025 at 7:32 PM UTC
How many homes do I have?
If home is somewhere I stay most of the time, then, of course, I’ve only got one, and none cares if I love it or not.
And if home is somewhere I’d love to be, where walls and people always seem to welcome me, then I’ve got plenty al around Kiev and it’s neighboring small towns.
And if it’s somewhere I belong, then I was born homeless and will probably stay like this till the end.
So, please, my dear strangers, choose whichever answer you like.
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 3:26 PM UTC