How long will you stay on all fours
the centuries passing you by,
and Ghosts of Communism having their way with you?
"civilization," "reflection," "humanity"
nothing but soap bubbles
in your medieval bear thick slumber
is all you can hear
are the whistles of Cossacks whips
and ululations of clowny priests?
Who is to blame?
Ivan the Terrible?
lard and young pioneer songs for breakfast?
What to do?
It is not a rhetorical question!
Pork jello land,
Shake off the manure and flies
Off your worn blistered skin!
Siberia of the spirit,
The collective farm of the mind,
The labor camp of the soul!
Before it is too late—again!—oops!—
For a millionth time—
oops! epic oops!
Your Swan lake
is a swamp
Look, Kiev is in black flames
burning away from you
like Moscow from Napoleon
History is the nightmare
orbiting with maniacal passion
after the eternal return—
It raps in my ears
with Youtube attention deficit disorder
and pre-teen angst
like thousand Bach cellos
It screams barricades, bodies dead,
black blood and BTR blowing up
hammer and sickles' armed Oedipuses!
This sleeping beauty of my country
is snoring in its crystal coffin
in its drunken stupor,
a rotten herring in its clawed furry paw,
Swarovski-bejeweled crucifix for a pacifier
It is spread out in its own body fluids
ever so comfortably—
So over the cold puddle of the ocean
Let me rap to you—
rapists and slaves,
stuffed dumb with kielbasa, vodka,
and protein rich garbage
from the geyser of the TV sewage,
Here is a blood soaked Kremlin brick
of my heart
into your sordid window
from your forever prodigal literary hooligan:
I divorce you,
with all the pain and love
of my Hungry Duck youth—
You must become who you are