Will it be all the nights of your bed empty when I couldn't sleep?
Are you going to choose instead, the moment
I put underwear on my head and asked in a horrible Russian accent,
"Would you like some bread?"
(--Look that wasn't entirely all my fault I...
had a lot of coffee and had been awake two days in a row.)

I'd prefer--
the flash of my mouth at your belly,
the way your cold feet shock me awake and
the run-on-wheezing-snorts
from you making me laugh so hard I cried.

Actually, I'd prefer
every moment of every day I said I loved you in cups of morning coffee.
Bacon and egg breakfasts.
Hanging out of cars and making Wookie calls;
the moment you taught me about Baba Yaga and I said
you were the smartest man alive.

I'd prefer if you remembered me when I go,
as the sun on your face in the morning after you get to sleep in.
(because I know how work, life, goes for you.
They never let you sleep in.)
As the lips on your closed eyes,
as the love that men and women fight and die for--
wrote legends, penned scripts and made movies about.
That love, our love.

I'd prefer if you just remembered me
as love.

But can you love me in the deep? In the dark? In the thick of it?
Can you love me when I drink from the wrong bottle and slip through the crack in the floorboard?
Can you love me when I’m bigger than you, when my presence blazes like the sun does, when it hurts to look directly at me?
Can you love me then too?
Can you love me under the starry sky, shaved and smooth, my skin like liquid moonlight?
Can you love me when I am howling and furry, standing on my haunches, my lower lip stained with the blood of my last ****?
When I call down the lightning, when the sidewalks are singed by the soles of my feet, can you still love me then?
What happens when I freeze the land, and cause the dirt to harden over all the pomegranate seeds we’ve planted?
Will you trust that Spring will return?
Will you still believe me when I tell you I will become a raging river, and spill myself upon your dreams and call them to the surface of your life?
Can you trust me, even though you cannot tame me?
Can you love me, even though I am all that you fear and admire?
Will you fear my shifting shape?
Does it frighten you, when my eyes flash like your camera does?
Do you fear they will capture your soul?
Are you afraid to step into me?
The meat-eating plants and flowers armed with poisonous darts are not in my jungle to stop you from coming. Not you.
So do not worry. They belong to me, and I have invited you here.
Stay to the path revealed in the moonlight and arrive safely to the hut of Baba Yaga: the wild old wise one… she will not lead you astray if you are pure of heart.
You cannot be with the wild one if you fear the rumbling of the ground, the roar of a cascading river, the startling clap of thunder in the sky.
If you want to be safe, go back to your tiny room — the night sky is not for you.
If you want to be torn apart, come in. Be broken open and devoured. Be set ablaze in my fire.
I will not leave you as you have come: well dressed, in finely-threaded sweaters that keep out the cold.
I will leave you naked and biting. Leave you clawing at the sheets. Leave you surrounded by owls and hawks and flowers that only bloom when no one is watching.
So, come to me, and be healed in the unbearable lightness and darkness of all that you are.
There is nothing in you that can scare me. Nothing in you I will not use to make you great.
A wild woman is not a girlfriend. She is a relationship with nature. She is the source of all your primal desires, and she is the wild whipping wind that uproots the poisonous corn stalks on your neatly tilled farm.
She will plant pear trees in the wake of your disaster.
She will see to it that you shall rise again.
She is the lover who restores you to your own wild nature.

one person said: "peace is nothing but illusion
all I want is retribution"
[from "Pure Power" by Zardonic]
that's something I can identify with, which is why
I decided to write this heap of rhymes
————————————————————————————————
on a shooting range in a boondock la[ɛ]nd
with gloves pU̲t on; sta[ɛ]nd
in front of an autocratic ruler chained
by his hands to two moola safes'
[greed]
handles looking way
like an old-fangled car directing wheel
[steering wheel]
have this die-hard fool restrained
so that he, more or less, is still
I'm not a scho[ɑ]lar who can wave
around a degree in the medics field
but it's obvi this high-hat dO̲U̲chebag's plagued
with megalomania in a neglected condition
but there's a dreadfully effectual treatment
and he'll get it like villains
quite a gruesome fate
is looming upon this power-befuddled ****
like darkened clouds that, beyo[ɑ]nd a doubt, are soon to rain
["dark end"]
like waveriders, he's go[ʌ]nna serve
["surf"]
as a punchbag for I'm in quite a mood to raze
gonna wI̲nd up as nada short
of a ****** loon today
like Battinson, clepe me Vengeance
but I'm more something like the Zorro-looking caped
anti-autocratic vigila[ɛ]nte
from the Norsefire-ruled UK
[V from "V For Vendetta"]
meets someone whose work field's tormenting
like victimizers who pertain
to LE in one tsar-sized off-putting state
[law enforcement]
you know, the one that's go[ɑ]t a putrid trait
of always posing as a side you shouldn't blame (it's all the West!)
(now, let's go back to the foul autocrat)
like a jerky boss that you disdain
I give this no[ɑ]b a cool g'day
by douching him from a bo[ɑ]ttle full of straight-
-fro[ʌ]m-a-cooler H2O; just a fE̲w secs break
for him, & once it's U̲p, I ****** this base
being fro[ʌ]m a stE̲wpot great
with **[ɑ]t-a## noodles aimed
into this hU̲mbug's stupid face
[the "hang noodles on the ears" expression]
pepper it with some ground 7-po[ɑ]t to boost the taste
feel how I, like a husband who betrayed
his devoted, yet testy, wife, get rudely gazed
at, racked, beda[ɛ]mned (by who?)
by food-lacking men from Africla[ɛ]nd
[Africa]
ask him: "is the provided food okay?"
zero gratitU̲de displayed
all that comes from this sno[ɑ]t's bazoo's complaint
but nO̲[ɑ]t that I'm surprised
a typical pro[ɑ]sperous gobshite
the tack priorly applied
I do the same with a bucket full of maroonish paint
[autocrats have blood on their hands, hence "maroonish paint"]
like that music producer famed for dull future bass
I put on his viscous head a **** bucket
[Marshmello]
whereafter pick a wedge up & drum it
[golf wedge]
and, like a heap, I barely get started
[worn-out car]
like an unprepped passenger on an insane car ride
with no seat restraints applied
he's about to have a way hard time
I'm a cosmetic surgeon that operates part-time
fix his blamed jawline in just twain sharp swipes
with a steel bat, then yield some keen slaps
that meet his kneecaps until the knees snap
like the Baba Yaga hitman detached
from his peaceful life by someone ge[ɪ]tting him mad
[John Wick]
get his nails removed
which is pretty much the same that you do
when you repaper a room
[wall nails]
having perforated his fingertips
I ge[ɪ]t 'em plastered
a few minutes later, I rip them things
off 'kin/sim. to wax strips
he gets his phA̲[eɪ]lanxes smitten with
a freaking ratchet
[rathet wrench]
pro[ɑ]b'ly, he regrets
that his bo[ɑ]dy's still not dead
pick U̲p a pistol, set
a drum-like clip in, get
it cocked, then shoot lead around his silhouette
till the clip has zero ammunition left
seems like this once co[ɑ]cky piece of dreck
has gotten his khaki chinos wet
but if I've go[ɑ]t him in a sweat
like a summer jo[ɑ]gger being dressed
in venthole-deficient threads
for this brash dude, there's bad news
like me when I write some sick bloodshed
sadly for him, I've not finished yet (uh-uh)
like a runner that's go[ɑ]t some distance left
to complete, & it's not as dark as things can get
'cause, like the heroine o[ʌ]f M. Streep in "Death
Becomes Her" after falling fro[ʌ]m that string of steps
I've got a somewhat twisted head
[Madeline Ashton; the staircase fall scene]
so consider this as an insult-to-inju[—]ry sesh
grab a brace of scissors
for garden mainte[—]nance; Richard
Trager comes into play; begin ta
amputate his fingers; operate at leisure
disarticulate 'em I̲nto twenty eight **** pieces
cauterizing the remains with illuminated cI̲gars
fling into his piggish face some tissues
and some pain relievers
tell this nazissistic patient "hE̲A̲l up"
["****" in the sense of being "severely intolerant or dictatorial"]
let him relax for eighteen minutes
over the spa[ɛ]n of whI̲ch I put on play "La Chica
Rockabilly" & some other ro[ɑ]ckabilly
jams to make the whole vibe a mite less grisly
like an NA brown bear that is gravely injured
["mightless grizzly"; North American]
(as, in fact, this tragic-fated bleeder)
whereafter spray him with a
["wither"]
can of gas & make his dicta—
—torial a## go ablaze akin ta
a straw-fabricated figure
during gala days at the late of winter
[Maslenitsa effigy]
telling this piece of trash "in case you wI̲[ɪ]nd up
in somewhat of Hades, give a
warm shalom to the infamous ******"
consider this autocratic ****
a sugar daddy's skirt
'cause he's gotten what he was asking for
————————————————————————————————
oh, & one thing more to say: the
nullified, like ruler's presiding terms, dictator
was known among some as "toilet sprayer"
like a scuttered urinator

With irises black as limousines
you entered the grounds
without pronouncement.
You were like Baba Yaga,
cruel in your accidental truth.
Your achtung heart curled inward,
like a tar block, or amber.
With a pestle of love,
you ground me away.

You punctured my heart
   with your name -
      you had my full attention.

With irises black and sleek
   as limousines you passed
      my soul's guardhouse
         & entered the grounds
             unannounced.

But you were like Baba Yaga,
   cruel almost by accident,
      tongue of threat and spell,
          your achtung heart
              curling inward,
                 filled with teeth.

With a pestle of words
   you ground me away.

ladybum intimidates

wandering in the median

body bent,

hair coarsely pulled in crooked pony tail.

what happened to your face?

were you born that way?

with cupped hands, pleading-

stopping my car at the intersection,

driver’s side window-

my trying to be cold but guiltily relenting

people are watching and

what will they think?

your crazy eyes pierce me desperately

wild emotion and

something once described to me as crocodile tears-

Tensely clutching the steering wheel,

hastily scooping change and used fuses

to pour them into your hands

wishing you away-

some kinda spell of some halfhearted charity.

depart depart leave my pity intact

so that I don’t see myself

in the gaps of your missing teeth.

the guilt you spill

making my heart heavy

like a gull in petroleum.

I still see you from time to time

and resentfully I examine you,

ladybum-

bent body, missing chin and Baba Yaga legs.

thinking you some kind of witch,

avoiding you like

cracks in the sidewalk.

When I was a child, my mother would read me
Bedtime stories.
I was transported to fantastic realms,
Populated by goblins and breadcrumbs,
Little bears in cardboard rocketships,
Magic and mystery and adventure.
Never mind that she stood idly by
While my father beat me to hell and back.
This escape was enough.
This scarlet train ride to far off lands.
I would pull the covers up to my chin and listen.
Until I realized this, too, was abuse.
My nightly escape was a lie.
I was lead to believe that,
After one horrible experience,
Being, say, kidnapped by Baba Yaga
Or lost in a labyrinth with a minotaur,
That I would be free in loving arms
And I would live happily ever after.
But I would dream about escape,
Dream about wings that would not melt
Or princesses in castles with magic powers.
And I would wake up in my bed.
Still bruised.
Still afraid of the man who lived in my house.
Still a broken child.
(all the king’s horses and all the king’s men.)

Te invoco a ti Frida,
creo que entiendes mi padecer.
Tengo el moderno Diego Rivera como mi amor!
La mitad del tiempo vivo en sosiego,
más sin él, la vida no la entiendo.

Él es todas las greguerías habidas y por haber.
Me enciende y me apaga en el mismo instante.
Me habla pero su silencio es como el calor,
lo sientes, pero, no lo puedes ver.

Me habla de amor,
y me trata como como si estuviésemos en un campo de batalla.
Habla de una eternidad junto a mí,
más en sus planes del futuro, no figuro en ninguna parte.

Lo amo y lo odio paralelamente.
Amo cuando me ama,
Y odio la idiota, que por él, me convierto.
Si me toma de repente, surco los cinco continentes.
Veo el amor retoñar.
Lo veo revivir en sonrisas de jóvenes ilusos.
Los puentes se fortalecen de felicidad.
La mugre y el lodo se convierten en arte.
El agua sucia es tan cristalina como la misma pureza.
Cuando me olvida, cuando me ignora, es la más cruel crucifixión.
Es relamer la sangre coagulada.
Llueve contantemente, y los relámpagos truenan mis huesos.
La harmonía se entrega dócilmente a la desolación.
Se debilita el universo.
Me seco.
Yaga mi cuerpo en Seol..
porque amarlo a él como lo amo, es mi gran pecado!

Dime Frida,
¿cómo hiciste para soportar tanto amor?
¿para amarlo más que a ti misma?
¿Para desangrar el alma y sentirte plena con él, aunque por dentro estés vacía?

No me respondas. Me obligaría a tomar una decisión.
Lo amo, aunque me mate hacerlo!

LeydisProse
6/2/2017
https://m.facebook.com/LeydisProse/

The ancient people were scared of gods
I am scared of nothing
I am scared of everything
being a child you are scared of Baba Yaga
being adult, you are scared of love, death, prison, cancer, AIDS and many more
the ancient people were scared of unfamiliar things
and we are scared of things we have been researching
I am scared of nothing
I am scared of everything
death, famine, abandoned children
gods, have mercy
if this is your currency
I am visiting bank on Mondays
I give them money, they give my dog milkbones.
gods are still silent
I am still ancient
I guess...

In the caring arms of
candles, bathe
the sky with Autumn pools,
canvasing yards.

Sacrificial intruders, gently
swimming leaves, crying acoustics, Baba Yaga spins
her satin cobwebs in the wake
of morning

(funeral rites a few streets over, hardly paid mind or body)

we are protected now by a sauna, simmering hot stones in our chests-
      -burst forth with passion!
ragged romantics gather
  reaching upward to their forbidden idol (since lost)

coffee, bitter dew on garden, fountain parasol to overcast
dispersion/carving blade/nuptial rumours/nobody translates the sick/everybody is coddled by loneliness (wolf, a deathmouth which has never known satisfaction/mute & watercolor)

shop signs faded white, shoeshiner replacements, faces transposed, day drapes with smoking curtains
prematurely & ur smile
is tortured by animal
vagrancy


lips (siesmic breath)

  lips a
 talisman recieved in charity

another fertile morning kept fruitful for those who value moments & glances 

lips the household fables,
the native porch! (pity)

lips o spirited child clutching hollow whistling images

lips o bedside manner

(I am a feverish mountain branded with snow)

lips cream of dust,
lavender flicker,

(speaker's immortal verse/showering violets)

lips eager to shake hands
& dance
with violence as they
undoubtedly know how

Yaga

please, i beg of you,
to know the place
of which god has no
knowledge,
or leisure of entry...
     and keep me in that
suggestion...
otherwise?
  i have my closest
fasthom to "market"
   a pettle...
i: closer to birch
as
identifying tree:
than an oak...
       am i closer to the
     castle-of-thought,
with the crude units
of genitals?!
confined of the male
genitals?
      little girl and little boy,
baba yaga
and turnip for
a hansel,
   and a beetroot for
a gretyl...
                 love: so sweet...
love... in the affairs of
furore:
otherwise:
   what would only become
the kaleigh dance...
     and us...
    and no: us...

           a hybrid of *******,
as would become understood...
standing aloft in grieving
a stature of Edinburgh...
         your...

           shadow of being...
my supposed "child":
and your... belittling child
of a genital take
on impetus...
        
    odd... athe africans
can call it a clear sahara...
        with a male and female fame of
"purse"...
     Żubrówka...
         no... ***** no...
i kissed the prince the snail
and you expecting him
to be frog turn: a lottery baron...
                 ****... me!

you call them something or
other... the heil glum's?!
             something in question
of being: "told apart""?!
          
romance what what with what?
post-scriptum colonialism...
    oh... ****...
forgot the proper impetus...
      ****** better take to
the revision of cotton...
      and because without the basis
of colonel tavington...
       you gonna provide
the chinese *****-labour
of your usurp
              weather journal?!
   ******* gonna become all
fickle and emotional
to resurrect aztecs or something?

mind you...
considering the ushering of:
freedom...
        see..
the red coats?
terrible...
    terrible... but you see the problem
of the modern,
    spectacle military?
    lost coherence of: cadence!

   north korea and russia will do...
england?!
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
   you ******* training seals,
or just agitasting egoism?!
  the call of the red jacket...
    odd the veering on
the purple sheer...
       her...
  
   majesty's... "majesty's":
soldiers...
                do english soldiers of the royal
core, even contemlate to
the basis of their existential
core... a...
an equivalent of a russian...
          infantry cadence?!

the english soldiers,
              demanding a queen
rather than enemy, or general...
             what a broken harth to
mind a square cubic of wreath...
without allowed metaphor...
        
let's be honest...
with or without the queen...
the current british infantry
cadence?!
            kinda... kinda makes
north korea look like...
                  a perfect shoelace;
nor is that perfect...
attempting
to cobble-fit
a variant of the loss of youth
in encompassing
      prior York, the Crown...

after a while i am almost
attempting to be sedated by
     an attempt into a play of being
torn, naive...
            **** gets boring,
and octous begins to
suffocate,
      imitating, royal,
           **** amour of the desired
******...
         oh how there is enough
little people, among the people
deemed: "big"
      in posession of a crown...
the english army is:
   without... goose...
  or what is reserved for
   the most appropriate height of making
a mark of... said,
or unsaid footing...
  how sudden the death...
and a...
                gambling
fissure of a: "loss" bound
                          to a tomorrow?
soviet says...
soviet gains...
        and the little gain
in between...
pray to god to never feel
obliged to pray or encompass
monogomy...

                          2nd. tier...
whatever you might call it?
words, are, cheap.

This breeze would scarcely stir a wasp-wing;
how will it ever bear away the coming rain
massing in loose cuffs over the flat-faced slate?
It won't. The rain will squat here in the gray
like Baba Yaga's hut. My eye drowns
in the soft drift of the water petals.
There is a single white cloud, doubled
in the black water of the road. It doesn't move,
as if paralyzed. There is no joy in this place,
only this numb wisp that hangs
like a poorly glued ornament:
a quick wheeze, a gasp, a cigarette breath,
a wracked cough, a corpse-smear.