indulging in
hot quiet continental climate
(themes for the future)
i was sitting on pushkin
grave
in kibbutz holy mountain where
he was buried after system killed
him with pistol wound
i never felt sorry for him
he probably deserved it after
his sweet poisoning secrete
just like joyce
did to his one
and smoking my cigarette
there captain moritomo
was
counting beads
beads!,
those are not beads
i told him those
are sand
but he did not care
and like lotreamon
he would
dig for sunken mine-sweeper
kronstadt
touching hurting wound
of epic struggle when working
class was embraced by incomprehensible
leon's
maneuvering
and sunk dead under ilych
systemic
wound from which he too died
even he didn't care
and i was contemplating aware
of the enormous strife to
justify stints and measures
of trotsky who
was chopped
by systemic pick and then promptly
buglerized
which had a prolonging effect on
cloning contemporary poetry of
what is important for people to
do to love each other and tolerate
any outcome
yeah,
i said to moritomo, and he
replied: did
you read the queen of swords?
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