the winding path
of darkness and death
through clinging ghosts
and angels disguised as plague
destroying the memory of sin
with a disease that must be fought
wielding the sword of repentance
m
the winding path
of darkness and death
through clinging ghosts
and angels disguised as plague
destroying the memory of sin
with a disease that must be fought
wielding the sword of repentance
m
Russian poets are cold
and distant
and usually broken
by some historical force of revolution
or stifling politics
forcing them deeper into the soul
and the only way out
is to craft the pain of comrades
and human nature
into pure genius
m
She wanted me to be
Zhivago
But there was no revolution
To stir the poetry
No frozen tundra
To bite my skin
And eat my fingertips
So I sold sunscreen
In St. Petersburg
By the beach
m
love a girl
who is always on her phone,
even during a romantic dinner;
relieves the stress
of all the poems i couldn’t write
and cuts down on small talk
If you love me
Tell me clearly
With words
Or symbols
Or calligraphy
I’m tired of playing
The soothsayer
this drug of solitude,
deeper and deeper
floating, sinking
in my head
in my head
through the silent film
of what used to be time
get lost in the music
nothing else matters
all love is found
all love is sound
in the music
express love
express yourself
in the music