From Somewhere With Love (54)

 

From Somewhere With Love

 kazanjian1_02

I walked until the boardwalk ended and toppled complacently into delirium tremens,

Take your salt pills!!

She fucked to barely feed herself;

On the top of the mount,

On the silk of the sheets of those lowest of lying, American hills,

Civilization, hyper development when man was the hunter, the broad was the target,

But also the spoiler of kills.

There’s blood in my eye,

You left me alone in the provinces, you cursed me for nothing, and left me to die.

I once told that girl what a forest wife was,

She heard forested whore, she gave me a black eye,

That’s what losing yourself in translation, too often does.

She teaches us our English you say;

She once knocked my face with the flat of her hand,

You can’t learn a language that way.

My people come from the soil and learned what they did because they couldn’t buy land her people don’t play. And men who are real men always pay,

You taught be pay then you taught me to pray,

If you didn’t know manly or womanly I bet you they’ll teach you, for the right price, savage surrender someday.

This one’s gone got away, I had begged her to stay;

She is a blond Slavic doll, take her layers off, wood pop and peel, and what is it you finally see;

After layers and layers of beauty and darkness and lies;

She’s just filled with some diamond, kept hidden from me.

Blacken my lungs are my therapy now;

Stoly my blood,

Bile my tongue;

You measure my worth in the swipes of my hand,

You’d marry mirages of money, when you’re old or you’re young.

If I put nice words in the linings of my casket,

I only prolong the latest Russian girl from dancing on my grave;

I thought myself brave,

I gave like a slave.

The difference is widened; by the lie of a life you again failed, were rejected to save.

The life that you built with a hatchet and pen,

She don’t love you no more, she don’t love the drama, and she don’t love the color, the nuance of you getting crazy over the chornay, again.

Black on black heart;

The life you offered- and gave,

Like the phantasms enchanted, enchained to the walls of a red neon lighted- post-Soviet cave.

The highway between New York and Boston is now overly eerie to me;

When we fucked once in the truck stop,

On the hood of the Civic, while truckers looked on;

She said ‘you never look like you’re looking at me’,

You’re wide eyes always look but they rarely do see;

That time I fucked up my life- like the time we spent in that forest, I’m handcuffed to you but you’re always still leaning on me.

Then until November now;

The Connecticut cops captured me blindly, they dragged me of the Lucky Star like a hooligan;

On the border of Mass, on Route 83;

Looks what they look like, we turned to the ugly alonehood of me.

She left me crying gently in Waltham weigh station, the next day I beat retreat.

“Real men don’t cry,”

All your men are beasts judged by the things that they did,

For the good life you think you just have to stay here and someone will buy.

Look at this country,

All of its wars,

You make small talk; that comes out like you think all my people;

Are gangsters and whores.

When we loaded our lives in a dream; when you made me cry and I made you scream.

Look at all of this trouble you’re constantly bringing on me!

Drama and madness, like the blat chubbies watch on the fat of TV.

We’ve jumped out of planes, I’ve spoken of carrots, of sticks and of rings.

We’ve acquired all manner of Asian made things.

From somewhere with love, I’ve found little, no place with a pulse, if I were a man that could make myself into glorious flame,

I beg for the end of this winter,

I beg for the cultural warfare to end,

The end of my mind is but only a round of her game.

 

 

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