Like a little Abel
You roamed the avenues of gloom.
While trying in vain to tune
A broken balalaika.
Sunday mornings, you sought the dens
Of smoke and liquid comfort
Drank the brown liquor, the sweet nothing –
A sweet exit to the outer darkness –
That vast galaxy of ghosts
Where the lost brothers stroll
Stricken well before, they could give form
To the sweet God-pleasing offerings.
Smoke blessed Abel, the oblivion pipe
The time – prematurely ripe
Be brushed by that feathery spirit
There’s no curse in disappearing,
In the early neon night.
Drink, sweet swollen-foot, let pain go
You, with that orphan-orphic heart
That never got to grow – sleep
Waste thyself in a music piece
In random silky verses, of a colourful retreat
Swim the limbo waters softly
Nullify thy anger first, thy soft anger
In sword-fighting – no point
Better be in the path of dissolution
No shame in becoming one, with the morning light
Float alone, in fusion, with the slumber forces…
Why awake still? Edgy and rock-solid?
There’s two of you – two in one
The other is the tough and crafty son
Who learned from the wise whores of the day
He lets you indulge in brief opium naps
Then says: now enough, up!
Revive the fair anger, regain thy strength
Ditch the dreamy element
For, at the foundation of it all – REVENGE
Thy mission, and holy pledge.