God

God of my fathers, God of my seeds,

Grant me Light.

Giver of All. Life. Guide. On High.

Give me Insight

Beacon to the depths of the Abyss

In Me.

God Greater than the Galls

and Gulfs,

God filling in the Gaps between

Heaven and Earth.

God Good

Governor God

of Virtue and Evil,

When shall I see?

One wishes togetherness with You All

You All Venerable Elohim on High.

All in one.

One in all.

Allinone!

My Fate is proclaimed in Freedom

From Beginning to End.

You win

Fight me for a word,

and lose me completely.

Throw your darts at the

Bull's eye of your argument

To miss me fully.

Incensed I feel, vapoured

and steamed, finite,

and still bound, still captive

in my room,

not willing to step out, yet

Again, cold winds for a hand;

Clouds and myst for a kiss;

The hand offered a hissing fist,

Ready for a finishing rant.

Thus I retreat and fall back

To a silent corner where

I might harden myself

And brandish my armour

and Coat of Arms

Clad in the purest Ice.

Muscovite Dogs

Strangely large and human looking

Are the mongrels and mutts wandering

Aimlessly down Gogolevski Boulevard.

For in their stride lies a pride

and defiance, as if suddenly a

Feline turned fiercely dog-like.

They smell ahead, ready for a kill.

For in their abandonment there is

the solace of lordship,

over their exquisite manes

over the mud and the frost

over the tracks fresh and long gone.

Revolutionary and bohemian

barks & licks & night watches;

Once friends, now patient observers

of Those Who Work Like Men.

Diabetic Rose

One white rose

(lies in a glass,)

Given as a mute

Token of meaning,

Words crystalised actions

Actions concrete feeling

(not glass lies).

From supreme

Insignificance

She sprang before my eyes.

From sweet blissful

Ignorance

She unfolded the narcotic

Scent of Life.

Standing alone passively

Day in, night out

I bloom and she withers;

She talks and I fall silent

As someone beholding a mirror.

Like myself, cut off from its roots;

Like myself, sucking desperately

Sugared water;

Like myself, maimed and crippled,

Blossoming bursting petals

In a slow drift into Existence.

Man of the future

The way ahead is spelled backwards
And in order to get to the end
I have at last reached my beginnings.

Name at least one way to tame
the upsurges of tiresome suns,
All of them in my control, though
the uncontrollable in me is the same.

Endless flow of answers fleeting fiercely
stuck in this still pond of the mind,
Cathedrals and skyscrapers in sight, towering high
Up where I am supposed to belong,
still so low, still a crow

croaking the never-ending cycle of life
which i observant go past and beyond
shedding my blood for marble and gold
till the process is complete and I am loaded

to the database of essence.

New sprouts rising from the broken stem.

Winter... a dreary, sulky weather where we all sit and lie, hibernating on the inside, expecting a sun beam to pierce through the ever-hanging clouds and shine upon us.

Winter... fog and myst, hindering the way ahead. Put your lights on, son. Once again we fight the white cold flame licking at our ankles and neck with socks, scarves, coats, ear muffs, gloves, vests, lipsticks. Fighting fire with fire... we will face our very own loneliness and pettiness before Nature by blending hands and lips with some significant other, so the fire inside does not die. Yet the land lies ready.

Winter... a grown, wrinkled man groping for his glasses amidst the darkness. It broods in, he can hardly gasp for air as all his leaves have fallen to the ground, the time has come and he is not ready, one is never ready for that final stroke, for the end of the road, the plunge into the deep. Yet he encloses the seed inside himself..

Winter is when we win, despite the freezing wind. The Sun soon is to shine upon the seeded earth, and our new self is freed to roam upon it, rejoicing the spring of the New that's come knocking at our door.

New Land In Sight

Is there anything more meaningful than moving to a place where the idea of revolution still hangs in the air?

The sense of subversion, breaking on through?

Well, it is happening to me. I am a month and a half away from a turning point in my life, the beginning of a journey where I will most definitely redefine, reshape and recreate myself as some of you know it.

Not only should you say that I will become more reddish than I am already, you need to look me in the eye and behold the turbulent merging of the old and the new in the Muscovite air, the violent surge of ancient modernised feelings, the struggle of the will, the repression of the collective and the common sense. Superstitions, arrogant Ferraris leaving a trail of opulence, a folk song in a crescendo of sound and fury, scientific minds, tea, the red flag of Komunista!, orthodox icons, the hammer, the politburo, the numbed press, the throngs of a starving, maddened crowd, a Farbeget egg, a Matryoska.

By floating eagerly at a mer du noms, a sea of words, strangely shaped and scented of musical tones, I most certainly make what makes me inferior my superiority, what seemed to be the weakest link a super power. Russians have achieved great things from their inferiority complex, something that we still have not been able to cope with properly. They have paid a price, and yet, they have become respected, recognised, even feared, as a most convenient demon for the Western Capitalist Civilisation. Most importantly, they have got a memory of who they were, and who they want to be.

Boiling red as the blood shed over decades and decades for something (immaterial to us) called "the Motherland".

Blue as the presumptions of the ever-decaying aristocracy and the newly-risen "new money", spilling litres of petrol over a restaurant bill in "Red" London.

White as the plains of an element that may freeze and burn, expand or melt, harden or soften to touch... it all comes down to how you will approach them.

That is a fair share to me. Dostoievski is by my side, smiling grimly.

Curtain call!

Back to the desk - again

Sunday, 3 May, 2009. 7:25pm. Once again, I am faced with my curse, which is to write. about? who knows? some kind of confidence or confession? an ellaboration of a political theory which is going to save the world? conspiracy theories? Maybe not.

Botafogo has lost another chance to prove that they are the best team in Rio de Janeiro. Yet again.

The streets will be packed and stuffed with frantic fans revelling and grovelling in the dirt, democracy is won, the people's champion comes back home again with its prize and laurels. The gates to the city are opened, dancers voluptously semi-naked will spring forth and surround their heroes, clouds of smoke and fireworks, the drums beat to the one heartbeat of the throbbing crowd, silencing the slightest thought to bear and stand.

The defeated are dragged to the main square for public mockery, being spat and pissed upon. No quarter for the down beat.

No such thing as second best or runner - up. Why keep running for it anyway?
Winning - at all cost, by all means. Winning, and sticking the sword down the foe's throat... howl fiercely at the sight of blood, tear the no-man's heart out and watch it beat warmly and gradually gradually wane into ash.

Ash and dust. Memories of the beginning and the end. I cover myself with coal and ash, these have always been my colours, I mourn the gone days and sit by the door, expecting the lights to go out - they always will - and shiver in the cold air, night will bring me power, night will bring me justice, dignity.