"matryoshka" poems
this is the first day that
my grandma
didn't
get to live
since a really long time ago
what can i possibly say?
i want to curl up inside my own fist right now
like one of your old matryoshka dolls
that i used to play with
and put you inside me so i can make it all better
i wanna recall all the thoughts
that once were yours
i want to know you why didn't i get to know you better
i stayed away im sorry im strange i get sad a lot but i loved you still
she had once
been
a person
but
now
she isn't and
i can't stop shouting these rips from my eyes
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 3:28 PM UTC
(Male Female Plain-Both)
**A message that's always in my head,
Maybe it'll reach somebody, who knows?
Certainly I've always been this way,
A patched up, insane Matryoshka!**
*A package sung from a headache,
Time may pass but the hands are still at 4!
Don't tell anyone but the world,
Will turn upside down!*
**Ah, I feel torn apart,
Throw out all the memories too!
Ah, how I want to know,
To the deepest part...**
Uhm, well if you please,
Dance more and more!
Kalinka? Malinka?
Just play the chord!
What am I supposed to do,
With such feelings?
Can't you tell me? Just a lil bit?
Loud and clear, 524!
Freud? Keloid?
Just hit the key!
All, everything's to be laughed at!
Hurry and dance with all your foolishness!
**Clap your hands, it's not really childish!
And listen, to this chaotic fully-crazed tune.
I certainly don't care either way,
The warmth of this world is melting away!
After school, you** and me, rendezvous?
Rendezvous?
Rendezvous?
Or perhaps you'd like a hopping adventure?
With a crooked smile,
1! 2! 1! 2!
*Ah, I'm falling~!
Catch every part of me!
Ah, with both of your hands,
Catch me for me...*
Uhm, well... listen a little,
It's something important!
Kalinka? Malinka?
Just pinch my cheek!
It's just that I can't control myself anymore!
Should we do more fantastic things?
Pain, pleasure, hurt but don't cry!
Parade? Marade?
Just clap some more!
Wait, you say?
Wait, wait, wait,
Before we fuse to just one...
After school you and me, rendezvous?
Rendezvous?
Rendezvous?
Or perhaps you'd like a hopping adventure?
With a crooked stare,
1! 2! 1! *2!
Hey~ hey~*
Down with a cold?
Hey~ hey~
Show me your song!
Hey~ hey~
See how even today...
I'm still a patched up, insane Matryoshka!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
**Hey, hey, hey!
If you'd please,
Dance more and more!
Kalinka? Malinka?
Just play that chord!
What am I supposed to do,
With such feelings?
Can't you tell me? Just a lil bit?**
Loud and clear, 524!
Freud? Keloid?
Just hit the key!
All, everything's to be laughed at!
Hurry, go and dance no more!
'Smooch' 'smooch' Kiss! This moment is ours alone!
'Smooch' 'smooch' Kiss! We don't care about them, not at all!
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 10:57 AM UTC
The tone is a human,
a human is a being,
and a being,
is a tone.
The tone is a being.
When one human sings,
they create a tone.
A tone that carries
all tones within.
When two humans sing,
they create two tones.
Two tones that carry
all tones within.
They are making love,
They are making a harmony,
and the harmony
is a child.
The union of two,
the child carries all
the vibrations of one,
and all of the other.
Every harmony carries
all harmonies within.
The child is one,
The child is twice one,
The child is half of each,
and infinitely more than none.
The harmony is a child,
and the child sings.
The child is human,
and the human grows.
When a human sings
they create a tone.
This tone carries
all tones within.
The tone is a being.
The being is one,
The being is twice one,
The being is half of each,
and infinitely more than none.
Each being carries all beings within.
When the being sings,
it creates a tone,
this tone carries
all tones within.
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 7:27 PM UTC
Deep in the alcove
Of my being
I find an image
Within an image
Rediscovering myself
A facsimile
Adding only strength
Small
And still sure
That is my endeavor
I look within
For amity and strength
For conversations
With only me
As an audience
I find myself and
Smile…
I am the Matryoshka
Wooden beauty in the outside
Subtlety and charm
Moisten my core
On the inside.
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 4, 2013 at 11:32 PM UTC
On my nightstand a matryoshka looks at me,
Bright red and drawings all over it.
"You are just like me", she says,
And I understand what she means.
Underneath my skin there are layers of me
Different versions of the same girl
One beneath each
Some only see the surface,
The easiest part to see,
When I'm all I'm expected to be.
It takes a lot to see what's underneath myself,
To take each part and carefully observe.
Layer after layer taken away,
Leaving me wide open,
To try and self-repair.
Sometimes people forget
That it's so much harder to put something messy back together again.
But I promise there are more layers of me to see
I'm not just a woman,
I won't do what's expected from me
I won't surrender to the invisible fight of my gender.
Not all girls are the same,
We all have our own layers.
At the deep of the doll,
The center of me,
There is my core, all of which is me.
No more layers, no more lies
No more façade or stereotypes.
I'm just a girl, a russian doll.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 10:26 PM UTC
"Billie Jean is not my lover."
But she tells me differently
In private.
Now, however, there's a baby
Carrying her impulsive libido
Inside of it.
A matryoshka of folly
Long nights of Texas ***** and blow
Multiple partners, that's fine, just tell me!
But please let your other suitors know
That you aren't the only one
Carrying their load.
My heart sunk, believe me,
When I drove over to your house.
And it pained me to see
Your face, for the first time,
Unable to make an expression.
One, two, three vicodin
Four, five, six at a time
Seven concluded your session.
I found you wandering the eerily-still
Streets,
Even though it was a beautiful afternoon.
I love you so much, but please...
Don't die. I'm not in the mood.
Apr 11, 2019
Apr 11, 2019 at 4:09 PM UTC
The world is a Bersinski painting
The rain is a Plath poem
The night is a Fellini film
The day is a Bach cello Suite
Our love is a winter fable
Cold, warm and passing.
The stars are drips of milk
The wind is God breathing
The sky is a floating mirror
The grass is mother earth’s hair
Her ***** is the earth
Shapely, comely and nurturing
French roast coffee is the turning of pages
A scandalous book in a leather bound cover
The Snow outside is the harp strings strumming
Flaking specs falling lightly and patiently
The city is a never-ending waltz
The *** lives are directed by Bertolucci
The homeless vagrants are saints in rags
The People walking are sinners
Each a sphere within a sphere
A world within a world
The theaters are abandoned rib cages
The poets are Russian matryoshka dolls
The painters are lost children
The eyes are broken, stained glass
Your arms and body are home to me
Cradle me, soothe me and touch
Those words won’t do it this time
Sometimes the silence is what I need
And you with me, away from it all
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 1:10 AM UTC
When she was young
(she's still young, painfully young)
I asked her if she needed help
with her dance shoes.
*No, no, I thought.
She can do it herself.*
And now,
three months after her boyfriend got hold of my number,
I wonder
if I ever thought
that she was older than she was.
She's kicking,
this little girl
inside this little girl -
(matryoshka,
matryoshka,
a limoges pram
for the matryoshka...!)
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 6:12 PM UTC
I
Aspiring to reach the solar rabbit hole eclipse
--climbing up the well,
the photon test tube
sodden and crusted on the outside
by angsty
adults
snorting obsession
through The Manhattan Project straw.
The pirate boy wanted to be named
Skip--so determined Alice named him,
Skippy, conqueror of blueberry mucus
--he reminded her of sidewalks
she found far in the misty woods
--no one walked
the unexpected like him.
Each placement of a pore: a bat cave
a depressed skull
a hollow exploit
a lame *** joke
a mildew plop
Almost certainly this cadaver matryoshka doll
would be human by the time
the two runaways
were born again Hallelujah! The dish breaker is crowning again
back to the galleons, rotting awkward candles.
"Leave what is human in
inhumane
places." the well speaks.
Skippy tears the corners of his lips
to his ears. Alice turns her temple to the sharpest part
of the monumental
test tube
and cracks her childhood back to the bottom
--back to Euphoria. light poles open
up faces and throw their lights to the ground.
Both of the thrift store
lovers continue to climb--ripping off purchases
to the beggar's tin cup.
II
Severed hearts beat without metaphor
as the empty vessels that hold them.
Spines sing of freedom like centipedes
facing fan blades. Pirate boys mock the smoker's language
of mutiny.
Devalued skin,
dirty armor
casted,
lowered,
teased, by the cadence
of tumbling blood. Marking territories other brother's can smell
Obediently, we see what
gods are doing to them. They're paying
for drawing the different suits of God
on the cave wall. Hit jobs--vacuum spoils,
sucker punch postage stamps
--revenge from a peaceful creator
forcing the two to climb/climb/climb
back to a speck
where dandelions grow
from the revolution fetus and graphite,
& tongues, & lips, & nerves, & veins &
wolf spiders pour down/red matter clusterfucks.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 12:10 PM UTC
Rain patters on the window
hurricane winds whistle round about
my mind.
I hear the rain, amazed that the sun's rays
still fall to earth, warming and nurturing
Cocooned in a throw, I look at the room
I've lain in for three days in a pain of my making.
I've become a cliche, the madwoman in the attic
lamenting lost love, lost life.
Cruelty knows no bounds, yet it binds.
Rhythmically the rain batters at the panes.
I don't want praise, I like my malaise
I feel real when I feel pain
I lie slain on the floor, amidst the wreckage
of a marriage.
I've died over and over these last three days
I want to get up and comfort you
To tell you that your life will go on
Mine had to end. I'm sorry you found me
on the floor, tablets strewn everywhere.
Baby steps now my love
you knew I was broken,
there's only so many matryoshka dolls in the original
I'm still here my love, it's just better that
you don't see me, but I can watch over you.
Your heart is broken, filling with rain and tears
my heart and soul was broken when the ink was dry
on the paper declaring us over.
When I get up from the floor, I want you to listen to the rain and
know it's me, my ghost knocking at your door.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 6:13 AM UTC
Seen plenty of far off faces
removed from themselves,
layer after insipid layer of the "free world"
just trying to fit inside itself.
Matryoshka dolls
painted in the fashion of a Mona Lisa.
My darlin,
deep down are you smiling?
If I touched you would paint chips curl upward
like arms made of wet paint
I am peeling back with no friction.
Something certain to be there
but cannot be touched
something I feel so sure to be in want of.
If only I knew what it was.
I am eight keys
of a singular octave,
in a stairway of pianos stretching from here
to the sun.
Much like the visible spectrum
clamoring to amount
to all there is.
So much of the world, ourselves included, fumbling in the dark,
unseen
but never untouched.
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 5:02 PM UTC
*The lake was frozen,
the world was white
trembling me set my step out
walking on the frozen lake
my steps broke ice
----------______----- __ --
I held me, barely found the balance
let my nested man to walk
His nested man as he fails
walked as so on...
I came to the city
was in other side of lake
when I was a kid
Matryoshka dolls I used to play with
made me walk on thin ice*
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 11:46 AM UTC
i would cry a lot
right now
if i had any tears
left
after these
two years.
you ****** me dry
but you haven't stopped there
you want the empty shell,
too.
i hope that she'll
keep a smile
on your
gravestone face
put some sort of light
back into your
chopping-block
eyes
i hope that shell of me
will keep you warm
on the freezing nights
you are alone
that you have inflicted
upon yourself
i hope this hollow girl
that used to be
your daughter
will make you happy
finally
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 2:43 PM UTC
I found religion at the bottom of a cereal box
and ended up saving it in my pocket for awhile, spending my sundays
beside spiritual cannibals speaking of the Supergalactic
and eating on the good word while waiting for the Hand of god
or so-called Miracles; only recently have I discovered
the sacrosanctity of the seed, the egg, the space between matryoshka dolls,
the amoeba before it splits or the amoeba afterwards, baby teeth
and graduates, letters stuffed in pen tips in hands of poets
kneeling with the armless, contrapposto women waiting
inside blocks of marble and boiling pots of Hellenic brass worshiping
in the house of the hesitant spring crawling from the earth’s core
on stolen time;
I say a heretic’s “Amen” to the parting of lips,
the movement of breath, all werewolves on the half-moon and
the moon before the harvest, bless the ant hills full of false gods
that band together in the symphony of the subatomic and glory be
to the Truth! the only truth, that just as all things die in the end, so too
are all things born at the beginning, a fact lost on all those preaching
sacred scriptures in the dead language
of the Impossibly Huge.
Jul 10, 2016
Jul 10, 2016 at 12:17 AM UTC
Wading in a muddy riverbed,
panning for broken pieces of
pretty blue bottles that
glint in the
sun's rays like
azurite
Upstream,
without warning,
a deafening cry
of impending cathexes
The river surges
gasp...
rushes,
tosses,
thrashes me
in mysterium tremendum flow
and a flurry of foaming crests
I bathe in effervescence and
glide through
torrential sentiment,
submerged in
cosmic love
...sigh
Crawling from this eddy transcendence,
trembling
precariously up the shoreline
to rest in his arms of
fiery brilliance
gasp....
....
....sigh
to set him ablaze with
Divine oxygen that
beads from my
velvet lips like
dew drops, and
coo giggling whispers in his
ear of
soft, tender
reflections,
as he feeds to me
crackling embers that
surge to my
heart centre with
volcanic intensity
Reciting a story
sui generis
nested like Matryoshka,
the ever-unfolding opus,
tangled in sheets of
layers
upon
layers
of papyrus,
scribed
and
scribing
Oh, to wake in such a dreamscape.
sigh
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 6:13 PM UTC
Her novels were full of everything you:
passive hopes; a burned Matryoshka doll
(Gorbachev); two fist-holes in a wall --
here's an epilogue: indelible, true.
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 1:43 PM UTC
When I fell back into the cramped nook of your shelf,
you didn't even acknowledge me amidst the other knickers and gnats vying for your attention.
You overlooked the viscous hatred glazing my bronze porcelain.
And after you spit-shined me in an attempt to erase the set-in stain
that so starkly contrasted all of the work that you had put into the cocoa complexion nurtured in the heated vacuum of your built-in incubator,
you showed me off to your friends,
your little nesting doll that had shrunk down to its true form,
so cute and abridged that you could fit its summation in your pocket,
doomed to eternally room with your dusty love shields and dingy photocopies of past mistakes.
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 9:35 PM UTC
In your world,inside your country,
in your town,inside your house,
in your family...
... strangers came around.
Even inside you...
Language was never found.
Aug 4, 2017
Aug 4, 2017 at 11:15 AM UTC
The clouds fell from their lofty perch onto her belly / wrapped in layers of time this Matryoshka/ flouncy in snowflakes / cold startles the birds / the trains are stillborn / marshes float on ice / and nights look like silence //
She fashions a snowman / they speak in parables of time / is it shaped like a sisal string or a potter’s wheel / does it appear like a falling star / disappear like a glacier / is it syllabic conversations at dusk / or chimneys brewing clouds into sky / while fires roast limbs of arthritic trees //
Her sundial is circular / like the lunacy of seasons / His, fractalizes into uncertain snowflakes / transformed by an arrow flung far to an unknown distance / Gaia awakens in ****** spring / a forced maturity squinting at trains that furrow the land / bleeding in cherry blossoms / wealthy as the emerald leaves she wears to a country gala //
The snowman computes time / stray facts the winter wind whispered into his ear / as he melts into January’s cloak / like tears shed for sparkling fractals lost forever / The Earth believes in the manner of faith , he will resurrect on her sundial / as she kisses time into momentary stillness, turns water into ice //
Mar 16, 2021
Mar 16, 2021 at 4:24 PM UTC
I feel myself
atrophy
Thoughts, splayed
like beautiful, oiled legs
in a ******* centerfold...
Thoughts, disarrayed
in a state of feeble decay
I'm taken apart,
deconstructed
What's a brain, with a broken vessel,
what's a spine,
when the medulla oblongata,
falls,
to a gelatinous mush?
put me away, piece by piece
in boxes
that open, to reveal,
smaller boxes, and smaller boxes still
I become...miniscule... miniature
inconsequential,
in the great nature of things
a little wooden matryoshka doll, being peeled from its shell
layer by layer...
but what if the innermost chamber
is hidden, under lock and key
and what if you crack it open, to find
your fingers are smeared,
in the pungency, of my blood?
It matters not...
I drift skyward...no tether,
to pull me down, to earth again
and there's not enough oxygen,
to breathe,
as I drift through space...
but if I return to Earth...
the sudden resurgence of gravity
will bring me crashing,
to the ground.
...And it all...Goes...Black.
Jul 21, 2025
Jul 21, 2025 at 12:17 PM UTC
I am a Matryoshka doll.
I carry many different versions
of myself around,
each making appearances
now and then.
I don’t even realize when I transform
until I begin to avoid things
to protect whichever stage I’m in.
Right now I am big, good at deflecting and
putting on a smile with
my mascara.
The small one that’s weaker;
scared
is
deep inside.
Safe.
Oct 24, 2019
Oct 24, 2019 at 1:16 AM UTC
well... back in the day,
in the days of Louis XIV...
they had their own unique
pronoun oddities,
like... the royal one...
and the royal we...
so... given those oddities...
then the kings used
to speak to their subjects
accordingly:
we are very much displeased,
or...
one should think so...
so...
we're dealing with pauper
miniatures of kings
and queens?!
seriously?
so now the "serf" imposes
the same rigidity of language,
that was inherent for a king
or a queen?
queen not queer or somethin'?
we've had this "debate" already...
but a king i can understand,
yet people of the same lesser
stock as i...
no...
not going to happen...
at least, if you're going to play the royal
spin on using pronoun oddities,
please...
don't **** at it...
they... they?
where are they?
they are far away
or are they in a matryoshka doll?
define they...
you sound like
primitive Heidegger with his da-sein...
the elaborated Heidegger
apprentice would add to that:
da-ist-sein: there's being...
there... where?
i can't see them anywhere...
but the royal we makes
perfect sense...
it's like...
you quasi-schizophrenic or something?
like... there are multiples yous in youuuuuur
concept of a coherent expression?
this pronoun ******** has been
borrowed from the kings and queens
of a few centuries ago...
but am i going to entertain this
******** enforcement from someone who
doesn't don a crown?
don't think so.
poncey little ******* who think
they're kings,
and possibly queer piss-pants queens...
no going to happen.
Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 2:20 PM UTC
I threw away the defrosted chicken,
and the nail clippings, skin onions,
what I once thought was my favorite shirt,
stretched out underwear,
the half of a pair of gold earrings,
a crumpled ball of my hair.
Threw my feelings, personality, nonsense conversations.
Have I ever told you it scares me to death to be like them?
I am encapsulated, living thing, matryoshka doll.
This city fits me like an oversized wedding ring.
And the town wives want to compete,
Floorboards and glasses of white wine,
Mumble and half smile my way out of this.
Jul 8, 2019
Jul 8, 2019 at 6:26 PM UTC