"petersburg" poems
/ as i am pretty sure all americana
feels about "us":
oh 'ook, 'ere comes old man
europe,
no hemmingway,
and no so: as the casual english
expression solidifies exchanges:
just across the atlantic:
the, pond...
haven't the foggiest...
i'm "new" here,
and even i find these english prims
& pomps and idiosyncracies
a bit debilitating...
today i walked from my home
with a knife in my pocket...
why... why?!
apparently it's worse
than new york,
a belt as a qusimodo boxing
glove won't cut it,
given that that:
requires a formal introduction,
prior to a fight...
guns guns guns...
over 'ere we 'ave knives knives knives...
and politicians can't exactly
ban them... no, not really...
ban knives, soon you'll be banning
forks, then spoons...
and then...
the whole ******* kitchen...
we'll all be eating out,
in public, cheap cheap cheap,
cheap restaurants
like the slovakians eat in...
can you even imagine that while
in st. petersburg i didn't see,
not one mcdonalds...
same so in moscow:
not a single mcdonalds...
it was like a: relief...
a bit like only seeing africanos
only, but not elsewhere other than warsaw;
erm: afro-saxons?
sure! we have them in england,
plenty of afro-saxons...
so now afro(x)
is not pop-up frizzy hair,
bundled into a french bun...
type of... "thing"?
**** yeah!
hit the spot!
oh old man europe...
tired and yet, and yet tired
of his riches,
how craving the old trenches
of Ypres...
the belgian mud, the rain,
the rats and crows...
europe: lament over libya...
or even pseudo-neo-rome
lamenting over carthage being destroyed...
in reverse -
abbrv. into - orior carthago!
was it cato the elder
who persisted counter to this?
as heidegger would have put it:
that's not even question-worthy.
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 7:26 PM UTC
…These men are worth your tears:
You are not worth their merriment.
-Wilfred Owen, “Apologia Pro Poemate Meo”
When that loudmouth on the wireless machine
Alludes to Western Civilization
What does he mean? Paradise Lost? Probably not
Nor Saint Paul speaking on the Field of Mars
The Kalevala, Hagia Sophia
With its pendentives lifting up our prayers
Horatius fighting to defend his bridge
And Wilfred Owen dying bravely on his
Lord Tennyson and Idylls of the King
Chapultepec, Henry V, Becket
The paratroops at Arnhem, Saint Thomas More,
His King’s loyal servant, but God’s first
The Stray Dog poets of Saint Petersburg
The brave last stand of Roland at Roncesvalles
Lewis and Tolkien and glasses of beer
Montcalm and Wolfe on the Plains of Abraham
Hildegard von Bingen, Siegfried and the Rhine
Magna Carta, HMS Hood, the Thames
The Grove of Daphne, “The Old Rugged Cross”
Beatrix Potter and her little pet rabbit
El Cid, Anne Frank, John Keats, Saint Benedict
“I Have a Dream,” Dostoyevsky, and Greene
Viktor Frankl, Dag Hammarkskjold, and Proust
Good Chaucer’s naughty pilgrims telling tales
The Gettysburg Address, Willie and Joe
Stern Saint Augustine of North Africa
Wodehouse writing a jolly bit of fun
Saint Corbinian and Bavaria
The ancient glories of Byzantium
Pius XII contra the bombs and lies
The 602nd TD Battalion
Saint Joan, the Prado, and Robert Frost
And far, far more.
When that loudmouth on the wireless machine
Alludes to Western Civilization
What does he mean?
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 4:06 PM UTC
Welcome Back To This, Your Isle
The rabbits beneath the deck,
Even the pesky deer who eat the shrubbery,
Sea creatures, living and spirits of the dead,
Lying on the paths and in the creeks of Silver Beach,
All inquire:
Was it better wherever you went?
Were the:
Bears, hiding in the forests outside Berlin,
Eagles, double headed, of Russia
Herring, fried, creamed, wined,
From the vendors on the docks of
Helsinki, Riga, Visby and Tallinn,
Salmon, smoked and cured in Stockholm,
More impressive,
Tastier than our striped bass,
Island cohorts of yours, who waited patiently
For their chronicler to return?
Did the Little Mermaid and her Dolphin
Guardians of the Port of Copenhagen
Welcome you more warmly than your friends,
The ospreys, lizards, turtles and owls
Who overwatch your steps and safety
When hiking in Mashomack Preserve?
Are the interlacing tidal creeks,
Woodlands, fields, salt marshes and the ragged,
Irregular but charmed coastline of this cherished island
Any lesser than those of Scandinavia?
Are the sea-going ferries that transverse the
Baltic Sea and the Gulf of Finland,
More poetic than the Menantic or the Lt. Joe,
Who carry you swiftly home to us?
The National Geographic people say that in
Tivoli Gardens, The Amerikaner (ha!) waffle ice cream cone
Is one of the ten best in the world.
Guessing they have not made it yet to the
Tuck Shop for some Moose Tracks!
Were you unaware that our isle settled before
Peter the Great ever envisioned creating the grand
Boulevards of his capitol, St. Petersburg,
Route 114 was a traveled forest path,
By settlers and Indians, not serfs.
Of the Treasures, the Gold Room of the Hermitage,
The Amber Room of Catherine's Palace,
Wrote not a single word, we observe.
Your attentions, they did not deserve?
The answers all, self evident.
Here, surrounded by the gentle breezes of
Long Island Sound and Gardiners Bay,
Sweet and salty flavors of the Peconic atmosphere,
Words unlocked, from your eyes to the page fall,
Smudged by joyous tears, for the muses of the island
Have embraced you yet again and rebirthed
Inspiration, within their comforting, sheltering grasp.
Silver Beach
July 22, 2012
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 4:50 PM UTC
Vania Konstantinova was born, lives and works in Sofia. She graduated Classical Ballet in her native town and in Petersburg as well as Polish Philology in Sofia University and Jagiellonian University, Krakow. She's co-author of the poetic book Four Cycles (along with Bozhidar Pangelov). Her collection of short stories Thank You Mister One is published in autumn of 2008.
http://www.public-republic.com/vania-konstantinova
With all the Homesickness of the Foreigner
"You'll present me one Paris
with all the homesickness of the foreigner"
Vania Konstantinova
He's looking for a job,
but has no shirt,
Rose,
and expectation even in the pocket.
Whether sometimes he doesn't bend
to look how the Seine passes slowly?
Whether it's cold
(that's an author's thought)?
In this circus gleam only
the blue glimmer of the knives
(which yesterday were pawned).
It's a French movie.
Paris is somewhat little
for one grief
and nothing.
Compared with your arm.
The original:
Ваня Константинова е родена, живее и работи в София. Завършила е класически балет в родния си град и в Петербург, а също и полска филология в Софийския университет и в Ягеловския университет в Краков. Съавтор е на поетичната книга “Четири цикъла” (заедно с Божидар Пангелов). През есента на 2008 излиза сборникът й с къси разкази “Благодарим ти, мистър Уан”.
http://www.public-republic.com/vania-konstantinova
Със цялата тъга на чужденеца
"Ти ще ми подариш един Париж
със цялата тъга на чужденеца"
Ваня Константинова
Той търси работа,
а няма риза,
Роза,
и очакване дори във джоба.
Дали понякога не се привежда
да погледне как минава бавно Сена?
Дали е хладно
(тази мисъл е на автора)?
Във този цирк проблясват само
сините отблясъци на ножовете
(които вчера са заложени).
Това е френски филм.
Париж е малко
за една тъга
и нищо.
Пред ръката ти.
*Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
Dec 22, 2010
Dec 22, 2010 at 11:37 PM UTC
*to further my point, as an eager reader in
a catholic school, reading about
the gnostic heretics, wondering
with my theology tutor upon the question
asked: don't you think the gnostic heretics
influenced mohammad on the sly?
i mean, they too believed a phantom walked
among men, and a phantom was crucified?*
my confirmation didn't take place
in a cathedral, as was due course for all of
us in being schooled, by a bishop
in brentwood cathedral,
i opted out... my confirmation came
in a russian orthodox cathedral,
in st. petersburg, when i watched
people standing for a scrap of iconoclasm,
with the priest mumbling
toward a golden altar, as typical in
the tradition, buttocks towards the people
or as in the western tradition
reciting in latin, before the nationalists
came and spoke the gospel in each
designated tongue so people understood,
a bit like having your back turned
against the people - speaking in latin -
and when i sat i the church
to listen to the choir singing,
some lesser ecclesiastical prompted me
to stand up, and pay respect to the golden
altar... he told me to stand up!
what cheek... what barbarism... only
in russia... i had to stop being bewildered
by the beauty of song and listen to
a priest knock-down-ginger on a palette of
gold... THEN i was confirmed...
donkey's ******** to this **** i'm leaving!
mind the fact that i've seen the greatest
degradation of mysticism take place...
the tetragrammaton was being defiled all along...
in catholic bureaucracy it has been there all along,
the idiots reminded me of it...
you're born: first name, baptismal name, surname...
you're educated: confirmation name...
that takes four spaces of consideration...
so by catholic definition of sharpening pencils,
folding pieces of paper, filing the folded pieces
of paper, bending paper-clips i'm god...
but only in writing... first name, baptismal name,
confirmation name, surname...
a bit like a clone... a clone indeed in writing...
same d.n.a., same bone mandibles of the jaw...
but experience-wise... un-original to the ****
not even a clone... not able to experience major
historical figures... a soul in a twin body by itself...
a twin without twinning, segregated by ulterior
if not auxiliary motives... clone on paper...
clone by experience? i don't think so... impossible...
too many inter-actants along the way
can't possibly replicate thinking in a clone...
different mr. john smith... NEXT!
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 2:18 AM UTC
People live forever in Jacksonville and St. Petersburg and Tampa,
But you don't have to live forever to become a grampa.
The entrance requirements for grampahood are comparatively mild,
You only have to live until your child has a child.
From that point on you start looking both ways over your shoulder,
Because sometimes you feel thirty years younger and sometimes
thirty years older.
Now you begin to realize who it was that reached the height of
imbecility,
It was whoever said that grandparents have all the fun and none of
the responsibility.
This is the most enticing spiderwebs of a tarradiddle ever spun,
Because everybody would love to have a baby around who was no
responsibility and lots of fun,
But I can think of no one but a mooncalf or a gaby
Who would trust their own child to raise a baby.
So you have to personally superintend your grandchild from diapers
to pants and from bottle to spoon,
Because you know that your own child hasn't sense enough to come
in out of a typhoon.
You don't have to live forever to become a grampa, but if you do
want to live forever,
Don't try to be clever;
If you wish to reach the end of the trail with an uncut throat,
Don't go around saying Quote I don't mind being a grampa but I
hate being married to a gramma Unquote.
2.8k
Lights dim,
Colour explodes,
For upon the stage there is magic
and in the orchestra pit there is music,
Young dancers robed in elegance
glide across the richly decorated stage,
And the night smiles by
with selection after selection
of sublime ballet confection,
The dancers dazzle and daze,
Their bodies hugging the music's enchanting embrace,
Upon their faces are the smiles of summer and golden radiance,
On their bare backs ripple muscles glowing with the sheen of sweat and glory,
Their breath comes in quick bursts as they fly through the air
and land as gently as a feather on the breath of a nightingale,
The girls are as bright as dawn's first light
and the men so supple and full of ecstatic zest,
These gifted artists were not from the snow-capped streets
of St. Petersburg
or from the steppes of the Bolshoi
nor were they from the giddy heights of the opera at Notre Dame de Paris
nor were they plucked from Covent Garden's glorious school of Royal Ballet,
No, it was none of those rigid and regimented corps de ballet,
For the vibrant and energetic dancers that mesmerised the audience
were living the pure joy of life,
These young men and women were from the poor villages and back streets of Cuba,
They brought the sun's warmth and delight,
They brought the lightning's energy and spark,
They brought the air of vitality and light,
They brought the moon's bewitching sophistication and surprise,
They brought the colour of life to their art,
This was a night of remembrance for the human soul,
What wondrous poetry in motion we can sprinkle and sparkle
if only we let our prejudices seep away,
Come, let go of the rat race sweat and pain,
Just ease back and let your mind be transported
to another time, another place, another type of magic,
Go enjoy a night at the ballet
and see human expression expressed through movement,
Witness tales of myth and wonder without a single word spoken,
One flick of the wrist
or the pointing of a finger
or even a tilted head
can say more and mean more than a hundred thousand spoken words,
Hearts full of love's deep lyrics told their tragic stories
through a mere touch or a caress,
Hearts were lacerated with a single swipe of a glance,
When two lover's shyly held hands and smiled
there was a thundering hush in the Hippodrome,
The lights changed from a cold blue to a pulsating red
and the orchestra showered the stage with glittering notes,
Drama, Music, Dance...
*This
was
Theatre.*
©Rangzeb Hussain
May 2, 2010
May 2, 2010 at 4:19 AM UTC
...
Spare me, if you would
It's a foreign land but a familiar street,
red broken teeth and alabaster snow;
I remember it fondly.
Sober winter and blue cloth;
I still see us there.
I'm almost certain, that
St. Petersburg questioned our youth.
just a little closer
"Dance with me, Kirusha?"
Always
All those years ago,
and we still drink up this disease.
The sour love of iron and wine
with shots of homesickness.
Russian rouge
American Dream
"Why did you have to leave?"
I ache to recall it,
because those gates still leak with cold.
This value withers in the white noise;
"Don't you ******* dare say that his death was just an experiment."
'You failure'
I sought it,
the ribbons of old confidence
while the stars looked on from their chairs.
I never found what I was looking for.
Go ahead and criticize;
the way we baptized my betrayal.
Knot up all the love you wasted
and send it overseas.
All that matters to me, Romichka
is that Death paid no mind to you.
Ruby apples at my doorstep
flowers that need blood instead of water.
A sense of hunger in this forsaken city
does not comfort me.
I just suppose
I've been thinkin' too much
And the bitterness let itself in again.
So when you find the time,
*Write whatever's left of me in the fire;
along with all the other things.*
...
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 1:06 AM UTC
“Mrs. Tubb, prepare my raincoat,” he said, “I’m going under the carpet.”
His ears were steaming.
“I’ll be waiting by the hanged stag,” he said. “If it gets to six and I'm still not home, put tobacco in the telephone.”
Down there, at the foot of the stairs, Mrs Tubb’s tears fell to the flattened backwards.
In the middle of the night, whilst she was sleeping,
And without her permission,
He had changed her name to Margot St. Vincent.
“Take off that murderer’s moustache and stretch out on the infamous Chelsea Blackmail Floor.
Ask the biggest bugs to dance,
You may never get another chance.”
The quietly handsome and magnificent Millicent Milligan was feeling rather ill again.
She had been dreaming of the brittle marigolds of Saint Petersburg.
She had been dreaming of pine cones and boiling marmalade.
Her home had fallen into a hole.
It was on the evening news,
But by the following morning they had lost interest,
A mountain had struck a commercial airliner and so no one was much impressed by her Home in Hole Hell.
355 were dead,
And possibly a well known racehorse,
And a corpse in transit who, of course, was already dead, but still, it was vexing for the family.
They found a priest in a poplar tree,
And the head of a hand model at the back of a cave.
(The hands were still intact and were couriered to their agent in a special flask).
Half in, half out of her delicious stockings
Wendice Titian cuts out scissor clippings of her
Sinister yellow sister.
Overnight the years twist.
Edgar Snooker has heard he is to play Hitler's dog on the silver screen.
Edgar Snooker is not a dog.
And the screen was never silver.
And besides, it is not true.
Someone is out to destabilise him.
As posh, brainwashed sausages consult
The Punchline Advisor of Dunkirk,
As the Lord is seen on all fours on His moon
Causing daily electrical police misfortune,
As the masses embark on the clamorous, scattered and impossible journey to disappointed purity,
As her money is without temperament,
As the self-conscious guilt daughter unbuttons her plush helmet,
So the richly magnetised stars are winding down.
As candles whisper in the middle of the road,
As Margot St. Vincent revolves the nickel tap
Of the gas powered knitting plate,
So Father Flynn is inconsolable.
He found a photograph of ****** Bob on top of his wife’s hat.
She denied everything,
Including that she was there at all.
Father Flynn fell for it.
That's faith for you.
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 8:12 AM UTC
Hello. Welcome. Sit down. Get comfortable.
Let me introduce myself.
I’m a man of the finer things in life.
I’ve been here for a long while.
Captured, lured, seduced, and wooed many the heart and mind.
You hear about that Jesus Christ?
All that trouble for uncertainty.
Well as for Pilate
Thought he could get away clean.
I couldn’t be happier
Hearing people fight for years
Over false prophets they made.
It is a pleasure to meet you.
Hope you guess my name.
Perplexing?
I was made this way.
Did you hear about St. Petersburg?
Revolution!
Killed the czar and his ministers.
Anastasia screamed to me.
I was plastered on the walls of Auschwitz.
Smelled the hot flesh burn.
For ten decades.
It is a pleasure to meet you.
Hope you guess my name.
Perplexed?
I was made this way.
Just as the innocent are corrupt
The corrupt are innocent.
As black is white.
As up is down.
Some call me Lucifer.
I can smell it on you.
Someone please hold me back.
But if we meet.
Be polite.
Have some pity and charm
Use all your manners.
Or kiss your *** goodbye.
It is a pleasure to meet you.
I’ll say this once it’s your fault.
Perplexing?
I was made this way.
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 1:39 PM UTC
Igor found himself producing the hot new reality podcast
about the first [known] father-son transgender family;
he only produced the pilot then left the States in disgrace
after homophobic thugs attacked the set & beat down
the cast & crew in a ****** riot captured live on multiple
hi-def cameras from the multiple angles
already set up for the extravagantly
over budgeted podcast [his master footage recorded
on multiple flashdrives
hidden all over his person - the podcast project
went ahead w/out him backed
by lucrative corporate funding, Igor editing
the original material into his next feature;
Eli lowered the tinted window & passed Igor the Cuban,
Igor lighting it on his way around to the passenger side;
YA ne mogu ostat'sya v Rossii, he says; why's that?
asks Eli, lighting his own cigar & driving off;
Boleye poloviny prestupnikov - gey; Eto stanet khorosho
izvestno; Eli waswatching the street, scouting for new talent;
u can't worry about that kind of **** Igor. u showed people
what those ******** are really about - - a bunch of angry ****
w/ shaved heads,
who knew; opening the sun roof,
Eli blew the Cuban's smoke
towards the Saint Petersburg sky;
Igor reclining the leather seat,
[ ] [ ], [ ]
[ ], [ ] , [ ]
[ ] [ ], [ ]
[ ],
filling his head w/ night
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 4:34 AM UTC
well... technically every *********** is an abortion,
i have it all the time, but when a woman has it,
esp. a Russian orthodox rich girl
it's time to call the Mamelukes
because "a mongol horde is invading",
there was nothing legally binding me
to alimony payments, no marriage
certificate, but my friend,
you meddle in other people's private life,
think you're the man with a career
in law but end up staging
your little: the judge, the jury the executioner
in your bedroom? FORGET IT!
you're just a lawyer, a scavenger,
you don't get to play the game 'who's your daddy'
so easily... you think you're allowed to provide
the architecture of a courtroom in your bedroom...
you're wrong.
take your little orthodox russian *****
with my ******* son and live a long life...
i asked her: i don't mind using condoms,
she said, ********* into me, i'm on
contraceptive pills... two apartments
in St. Petersburg and getting a degree in Edinburgh
you think she's poor? doubt it,
i'm not going to be a ploughing work-horse...
and forging your attempt to placebo the pills with lies...
all that feminism and still the russian
girls think they're killing a human being...
but like i said: the bladder and the ****
develop outside the womb, well brain too,
but the **** and bladder are more important
for the ***** what you're aborting
is just as much a tadpole as a fishy stink;
is your argument caused by the fact
that you gave the Star of Bethlehem to Jesus
and not Joseph because of Mary's fancy
for a centurion? it has to be! way-hey mainstream,
give it to the kid and you get Freud...
god i hate Freud... not because he's a jew,
it just made the whole being born a neurosis,
you need test-tubes, surrogate mothers, IVF,
two Elton Johns to not feel a stigma...
even if the world is harsh on you and you end up
living with your parents... mother *******
if they all adopted the Caesarian technique of giving
birth there would be no Freud;
well say goodbye to Darwin with that...
obstructing the Caesarian intervention with Genesis quotes
will still produce heads sticking out of vaginas
and by god that's no Michaelangelo.
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 7:02 PM UTC
audio me in... tell the b.t. off standards
to change the connection to lie to get to syria...
i wanted to become a butcher too...
not butchering people though...
onomatopeias of resonance of blah... blah...
you know... woollen trill...
i want the target bacon, i want to target bacon
on that **** head-banging with a pony
while blowing a sheen into a rodin marble
for the glisten of a haircut mare...
dark ivory like purple of a grenade of indigo
blotched with blood...
and spanked / spiked by kandinsky...
i told you i woz a barking gimmick, a barking cult-piece of mafia...
you’ve been warned dear bouncer allotment and semi-detached...
hey kieran - had his kidneys transplanted aged 15...
took to having a ****** aged 16 on the south park fence
when two ******* eyed us and the boys came to make cake...
oi boys r’ us you mention st. petersburg anywhere south of the thames?
i thought so...
make that spelling spaghetti for a kebab of dead meat
appealing:
it’s making headlines, people are fed fat but sugar headlines...
when fat headlines... people will be fed sugar...
salt will never compromise the use of steroids for balloon pop protein
for a mere attire of the bow tie undone with laze.
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 8:00 PM UTC
*oi! Bronson! **** ya matey! i'm a sardine oiled up! that paddy is gonna hang like a dog on a serpentine of a leash's worth of walkies... that paddy's gonna hang and ask for the relay gun at the Olympics going off... paddy was never the bricklayer... paddy always gangrene flex, got lucky in Arizona and New York, forked St. Petersburg and only forked a steak nibble... Bronson settled into retirement just fine, came out a ******* act-tor! pepper the bobby with parking meter fines for his bureaucratic funfair study... sooner or later Jimmy the literate will turn up, and replace Bob the illiterate swine cuffing someone ******* in an alley.*
oh, i'd probably become
an english teacher
and sing fuck-yeah
when the drone army of
Amazon couriers fed us
the next 21 hour trip in
defence against the Koran...
so i guess ha ha is in order.
and with every mythical Mrs.,
you tell 'em about the castration
in the synagogue, and never about the
baritone in the morgue.
Aug 3, 2016
Aug 3, 2016 at 12:12 AM UTC
**** all the children get a chance at the sandpit... only the dog collared ones attempting wrestling matches of biceps tonguing rhetoric touring waggle get the pulpit... kinda **** if you ask me: said sir sacrifice-a-lot when sir lancelot married; but all the **** happened after the ukrainian ***** it was the russian bourgeoise one... you forget you dim-witted bolshevik... the russian one... the russian one! not the ukrainian one! ah crap... too late, the crimson lunar eclipse from edinburgh to st. petersburg gave me mythological charisma; endeavour of the readers who can’t remember my tourism earning the year 2007 as distinct: i can earn an awareness of lying about the jealousy i have for the century of being a musketeer defending louis vix; ja athos! ein athos! i’m athos.... wrinkly & masturbated ******** toss! hey ** hey ** we dig dig dig dig dig, it's what we like to do... coal mine.... coal mine... coal mine... with a millionth diamond... we dig dig dig dig dig... hej ** do lasu by sie szło... high ** high ** unto abreit macht frei we go.
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 11:41 PM UTC
**** me in The Creation Museum in Petersburg, Kentucky. We’ll rut around in the artificial grass, taking in the beautiful world God created just 6000 years ago. Adam & Eve will pass us knowing glances and smiles while a velociraptor stands idly by, chewing on greenery. I know He says it’s an Abomination, but you’re just so god ****** cute and the talking snake says it’s cool. When we’re finished, Eve will ask if we’re hungry. She’ll hand me a shining red apple.
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 9:56 PM UTC
Hear
Bozhidar Pangelov&Vania; Konstantinova/In Memoriam/
Under the Coat of Arms
In Malta, in the ancient walls
is beating the sea so salty.
Somewhere behind,
distant,
hidden
are shining through southern almonds.
There is no moon.
The light is illuming
herself
in the pearl of your eyes.
Harmonious.
Without gunshots
of the squadrons by Lepanto.
The falcons on the coat of arms fall asleep,
never wanted,
in honor
and dignity.
Vania Konstantinova
Behind the Gates
Behind the gates
of Mdina I hide you,
far of any nemesis,
of foam and stretched sails.
Behind the towers of the castle.
In the most inner yard.
Under the spurts of the cascade,
more precious than silver.
Here they see only
the eyes of the peacocks,
whisked their tails
for cooling.
Keepers of the secret
with their tongues wrested.
And when your brush sculptures
the bracelet around my ankle,
reflected in Venetian mirror
like a trap –
I forget who you are and the sin
with head chopped off,
I forget about the death …
Vania Konstantinova was born, in Sofia. She graduated Classical Ballet in
her native town and in Petersburg as well as Polish Philology in Sofia University and
Jagiellonian University, Krakow. She's co-author of the poetic book Four Cycles (along
with Bozhidar Pangelov). Her collection of short stories Thank You Mister One is published
in autumn of 2008. Death 2015
http://www.public-republic.com/vania-konstantinova
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 7:05 AM UTC
i’m not here to pay my taxes
blah!
octopi strings attached into thinking
i’d down a bottle of *** without the hawaiian angels!
to hell with you!!!
she’s
the last cause i have of me,
but it’s
the one that makes billions accounted for
in history, dead numbering 70,000
by only one historian's care for facts, that's
when history is dyslexic with numbers instead of words,
it says: solomon's appetite, the reverse onomatopoeia
recorded of hum? mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm... *******
waves of virginia ah wooooooo!
*um um dumb d’uh 9 oh 6, 5 ah ah index pinky 1 2 3... ******* retards... throw that alsatian off the red brick wall to learn a few mannerisms of broken feet! i’ve had enough! pickle those foetuses in brine for emperor peter the great to intercede! i’ve had enough of the philistine peasants! i’m going coo coo in the artefact of the rolling composers loosing it in the muzak spectacle of the st. petersburg fountain; give me davy jones’ eternity on loop without insect ***** or interactant activity of the interpreted state of affairs, for the dictator to civilise his “insects” and reel in a misery that could never be a puppeteer’s excess shadow of string with the shadows wholly formed into balance of a hand picking up a stone excusing any excess of cobweb to interfere.*
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 9:19 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall, HSG
[email protected]
A Ballerina Arrested for High Treason
Let them dance in praise of His name
-Psalm 150
A ballerina was arrested for high treason
And no wonder – dance is a beautiful thing
Whether the thunderous tread of a country line
Or the ethereal flights of Russian ballet
Dance is a joy, and so must be suppressed
A ballerina was arrested for high treason
A dancer moves to mysteries of her own
On an imperial stage in Saint Petersburg
Or barefoot in a meadow among butterflies
Dance is a joy, and must be controlled
A ballerina was arrested for high treason
In the street or in a moonlit fairies’ ring
Such wild wonder – dance is a dangerous thing!
A ballerina was arrested for high treason
Feb 20, 2024
Feb 20, 2024 at 11:11 AM UTC
*understand my misogyny, what sort of woman would force a child upon a man when she secures a belief in the man's knowledge that she's taking anti-contraceptive pills while he was content to adorning a ****** given his lack of ****** ferocity of agonising the ******** as the owner of ********
strange to create laws worthy of society
and civilisation by unlawfully trying
to bind man with such expectations
that could come to pass with time and deliberation,
to imagine binding man to pavement
and street-lamps within nomadic thinking?
what sort of woman does that?!
a rich one, i am assured, one who bemoans
travelling to Edinburgh from St. Petersburg
because of a love affair,
the same one who wouldn't travel to London
from Edinburgh because the man had to become
a roofing prodigy and not a chemist...
well adorned ***** of the deep...
two apartments in St. Petersburg and apparently
one in Moscow... farewell dear pearl...
hello a purse of moths - now hear how my heart flutters
for anyone but you, you the aurelian sadist
to my butterfly heart:
- real men do not cry.
- but to music, what other compliment is there
if not for man to cry and not
go mad like Odysseus' jealousy
of being the sole interpreter of the sirens's wails
waxing shut the ears of fellow sailors?
if man cannot cry for music
then woman is in debt of crying for cannon
fire! vide cor meum!
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 8:19 PM UTC
Neal died on the train tracks somewhere in Mexico.
Jack died at his Mother's house in St. Petersburg, FL.
Remember that.
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 9:34 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 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
*eating breakfast in a long time,
half a teaspoon of sugar,
coffee black, three marzipan
nuggets coated in chocolate,
two cigarettes...*
and wondering where did the time
go since silverchair
released their debut frogstomp (1995),
or what happened to the offspring
after americana (the song *pay the
man* still wasn't a commercial song),
or the sudden thrill of red hot chilli
pepper's reunion with john and
californication, deftone's white pony,
or when buying the mortal kombat
soundtrack, and someone nice enough
at our price putting a different c.d.,
not the score, but the soundtrack
with actual songs: type o negative
(subsequently ****** kisses),
monster magnet, k.m.f.d.m., and beside,
days with cassettes (m.o.d.'s mr. oofus
ha ha) - and gigs, tool in glasgow
with that awesome german girl
who i gave water to in exchange for a kiss,
wolfmother in edinburgh, a few gigs
in london (papa roach, disturbed,
type o negative, iron maiden, the offspring,
american head charge, rammstein,
slipknot, korn, red hot chilli peppers -
when that arena at canary wharf was still open)...
but then there was verdi's la traviata in st. petersburg,
and aerosmith in hyde park, and boy
did depeche mode rock hyde park too...
i mean, most these influences came from
my uncle, but i can't give him credit
for king crimson, jethro tull and other
prog bands (early genesis, for example)...
or the jazz...
but it's just annoying to not have seen
the holy wood tour by m.m.,
or not seeing slayer when jeff hanneman
was still alive - after all i pledged the
tribulation of growing long hair in school
to him, one day, looking at the band's poster,
i was 15 then and became known as chewbacca
for a while.
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 5:36 AM UTC
I know that this mind
This wicked and ****** up mind
Will sink farther than yours
Under the waves of the graves
That has been opened up before me
and your once perfect thoughts
If there is even such a thing
I’m sure you thought that
Wear the skin of the corpses
That have followed you downtown
Into the ****** streets of that town
Into the ****** streets of Saint Augustine
or Saint Petersburg or Gainesville, Florida
I wonder which one I’ll burn away first
In the ******* emptiness of my heart
Thank you, for beginning the start of my madness
Oh well, I’m not sure if it was you that pushed it off
I think it was the sick sadness of world that has turned me on
The rush I get when I write these words
The worse words that connect and form verses
That will infect the simplest things that once were the simplest things
Before us, but are now just lies and memories
Dead men tell no tales.
So let the world continue without ever believing that we were real
Keep on telling yourself that the past should stay dead
Because it will, unless you **** me…
And I swear I’ll haunt you.
Infinity.
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 2:25 PM UTC