Saturday, July 21, 2018


The Life Review of Robin Ludd
By © Anton Vendamencsh, 2017

8 The First Armageddon

As the poet

Of The Waste Land

wrote:


”Oh, do not ask,

'What is it?'

Let us go

and make our visit.”

                         
Let us go see
And ask
The nonsensical questions
Wherein hide
The answers
We fail to admit:

Was Stalin really
A happy executioner
Of the eternal Judas
And his paymasters?

Is there really
No evidence
Of the Saint
Crossing out
The name of
My mother’s father
The ambassador
From among the living
For smuggling
In his Latvijan
Diplomatic pouch
Faberge Easter eggs
On behalf of
Hideaway tsarists
In the Soviet Union?

Does this make me
The grandson of Judas
Or of a starving magpie?

Of course,
There is no evidence
For making
Such an observation
Except for the rumor
And because near death
Has the mind
Make foolish questions
About history
Seem reasonable.

Why did the ship
That may have
Carried the eggs
Of resurrection
From Sweden to America
In an uninsured suitcase
Come to rest
On the floor
Of the Atlantic ocean?

Were the eggs
Not worth the ship
Springing a leak
If they had been
Left in some bank’s
Safety deposit box?

Who screwed up
History
Beyond belief?
Why has history
Evolved into
Darwinian refuse
That only
A non-existent God
May put aright?

Was Stalin triggered
To remember
Unforgettable horror
Because it was
Left rot
In plain view
Where its ineffable ghosts
Were playing
Happy tag
With the forgotten?

Did he remember
Love is
The purported cause
Of creation
When he took it
Upon himself
To persuade
The unpersuadable
Wise men
Bringing gifts
For comsumption?

What proof
He was up to the task
To set aright
A millenium
Of carnivals and anniversaries
Brought us
By the hysterically
Amviscious heirs
Of the city borne?

Alas! Judas
Alias Ted Beria Bundy
Broke bread
Then

(before the man
Could die a Sacred King)

left Stalin lie
On the floor
To die (Possibly)
Of a brain haemorrhage.

No photographs were taken.
No forensics were done.
No one knows
If Jesus had a mustache

Or whether
The four horsemen
Of the Apocalypse
(Conquest, War,
Famine, and Death)
Are but mere humans
braving death
In the face of
A faked history
A Hydra government
Taxation
And galloping urbanization
Filling suburbs
With vile banality
Reborn as objets d’art.

One can hardly believe
The record
Of slaughter, indiference
And mind shattering
Screams, which are
Hid in the archives
Of Hades
Coursing below
The slanted floors
Of the Lubjanka
Where Ted Beria Bundy
Had a ready lap
For virgins
Praying for the life
Of their fathers
By offering him
Spontaneous orgasms
So to speak.

Stalin, too,
Of course,
Took advantage
Of alcohol
And young women
To help him
Keep down
His daily deeds
And forget the blood
On the cuffs
Of his executioners
Come to make report.

Does not a good drink
And a fuck
Help forget
Immortal attrocieties
And suggest one may
Do more?

Until one day
Nadezhda
Committed suicide.

No one at the Kremlin
Dared voice
A guess why?

Was Stalin into porno?
    Not as far as
Anyone knows.
It was not in his dreams
The day he left home
And kissed
mother goodbye.

But Nadezhda’s death
Called for a show
Of cards.

With intimate ties
Never again
To be renewed
(Older women seldom
Offer the comfort
Of innocent trust)
54 years old Stalin
His spirit nailed
To the flagpole
Of the Central
Idealist committee
His crown of thorns
Rendered as invisible
As the flap of some flag
Or the raw letter
Of the law

Understood
Nadezhda’s call
Judged him
A failure
And sea-banged him
Endlessly
About the head

Until of Homo nudus
There was left
But a naked Will
No confession
Only alcohol
Could make retch.

Only his kitchen maid
Remained
A Goddess of love
Long enough
To embrace him
And call him
(when dead)
A good man

Never mind
The stuffed busts
Of an insomniac’s head
Turning Jerusalem
Into an empire
While ‘free’ sex
Liberated of matrimony
Sat on Homo Sovieticus
face.

Meanwhile,
From out of America
God
Become
A homeless oligarch

Summoned
By idealistic
unweened
Socialist youths

Dreaming of freedom
And justice
(Brought them
From somewhere
And sometime
By taxes
Fiat currency
And death
Of poor peasants
Falling out of trees
Picking bananas
In Ecuador)

Rules the world.

The execution of
Latvijan generals
Of peasant origin
Tells what history
Of what Fort Knox
Stalin’s Will
Was inspired by.

Yet to this day
Neither
The World Health Organization
(WHO) or
The Post Soviet Latvijan Saeima
Has declared
City led prejudice
Against Nature
A mental health issue.

No one
Calls the city bred
Metropolite priesthood
To confession.

The Homo nudus
Of the city continues
To be believe
The city
Not the wood
Is the perch of democracy.

No lesser poet
Than Dante
Confused them
When he wrote:

”I found myself
In a forest dark
...savage, rough, and stern
...the very thought of it
—Fear.”

Wherefore
The starvation
Of millions
Of Ukrainians peasants
By sovietized thieves
Come of the city
To replace homesteads
And sacred groves
In the forest
With slave barracks.

Never mind
That Homo erectus
Who made a living
Picking berries and mushroom
Became a cloud of magpies
Pick pocketing money
In Rome.

For all that
God’s ways
May manifest
even in stranger
ways.

For once
God refused to please
His usurpers
By discovering a way
And make use of war
To hide me
Among the robins
Of the wood
As He once did
Robin Hood.

Rarely mentioned
Or remembered
On planet Earth
God is now
Better known as
Chance
Which stands for history
As it is rewritten
In a Not Yet.

    Indeed, Chance
    Has me deny histories
    (Concocted by academies)
    With forward looking
Memories
    And pray and play
The lottery
    On behalf of
Joanna and her children.

Thus, tomorrow
Twenty-three million euros
Of the Eurojackpot
May be mine
And a dysfunctional Zafira
May be exchanged
For one
Joanna
May drive to Wolmar
Where she bakes
Pancakes in a hotel
And earns a living
For herself
And her fake fathered
Children.

If the number
Comes in
Joanna has promised
To marry a man
Fifty-one years older.

For my part
I will commission
A new history
For an all too real
Never past.

Saturday, July 14, 2018


The Life Review of Robin Ludd
By © Anton Vendamencsh, 2017

7 Loop de Loop

The train from Weimar

(on a humanitarian mission
To evacuate
Demoralized City-folk
And other Capitalists
From populist
And ludite inquisitors
Experienced in sacking
Countryside estates
Of Baltic barons
From Rigawood)

Took us to Vilseck
A military camp
And ammunition dump
In the wood
Threwn with hundreds
Of unexploded
Phosphorus bombs
And a dozen Kasernen*
Which became home
To refugees fleeing
From Commies
After blood.

Now there’s
a noteworthy word:

    *Ka-sern—
         From the word ‘castle’
         Al-Qasr in Arabic
            Ca-strum in Latin
         Meaning an armed camp.
         A word that
With the assistance
Of mindfull pareidolia
Converts to Jeru-salem
Home of lambs
In times when men
Were not yet murderers.

Does not ‘strum’
Stand for straw?
Does not ‘salm’ in Latvijan
Also mean straw
And soloma (солома)
in Russian
Mean the same?

         Is not Jerusalem
The same as Jaroslav
         (Jaro meaning lamb
From Greek yarn-aki
Russian = yagnenok
=English yarn)?

When all is ssid and done
         Does not the word send
To the back of the skull
A photograph
Of a straw threwn floor
         A straw mattress
For soldiers or lambs
Or luddies of Nottingham
Turned out of home
By missionaries of violence.

After taking us
To Jerusalem in Bavaria,
The cattle wagons
Brought us
(Mother and brood)
By way of
Bamberg, Amberg,
To Beutauklingen Strasse
In Esslingen am Neckar
A suburb of Stuttgart
And on to New York
And last to Boston

Where a small family
That made a living
Keeping a house
For orphans
Gave me room and board
In return for
A helping hand
And where
In the afternoons
I played endless
games of chess
With Charlie
A retired sea captain,
Who bored with life
Was succored
Many an afternoon
By Nellie
To the chagrin
Of Delores.

For a few years
It was as if
I had an anchor.

But playing chess
Informed me
I was but a pawn
In a game played
To the end
of no other end
than to check mate
Endless boredom
in the labyrinth
of yet another city
born of indiference
to violence.

It was not Charlies fault.
He had no idea
Why and how
The ocean came to stop
At the gates
Of Boston harbor.

Please,
Do not ask.
Why I did not sink roots.

Of course, I tried
And played
The harmonica
To sweet Valvala
Who lived
Next door
And who
in answer cried:
”I am ready
For you, Robin !
I am ready !”

I never forgot
And continue to regret
It was I
Who was not ready.

Sideswiped and robbed
Of my inheritance
By God
(Chance Circumstance)
And by Milia’s stepson
Poor Creon
Who frightened
By everything but wealth
Took advantage
And displayed
The portrait
Of murdered grandfather
His stepmother’s victim*
On the wall
Of his Toronto home
As a trophy

For me to behold
When I answered
His invitation
To come visit
Then chased me
From his dining table
When I confronted
His insolence.

*Surely it was
Yesterday’s revenge
On tomorrow
(And tomorrow’s revenge
On yesterday)
When two weeks after
Her birthday
Milia died
(on 23rd of September)
Next to
A Siberian salt mine
After buying
With a diamond
(Where did she hide it?)
And eating
A can of salmonella
Infected sprats.

Soon I found myself
In Inchon

    Three days
    After the armistice
    Of a United Nations
Led war
    That masacred
    Over three million
    North Korean commies
Soldiers and civilians
Indiscriminately.
   
Finding myself
Among fucked-up
American soldiers
And superfluous men
I did my bit
For humankind
Born as sometimes
Mushrooms do
Through asphalt
And stared bewildered
At bare breasted
Korean peasant women
Walk ten paces behind
Their husbands.

Still, when
The peasants’ daughters
Went from
cot to cot
Selling the meat
Of their thighs
In our ten man tent
I turned
to my other side
Wherefore I earned
The sobriquet
‘Stuck-up’.

I was trapped
And knew of
No way out.

No one
Had figured out
That country folk
(Their spirit killed
In the American civil war)

When driven north
To Chicago
(where they met up
With Lithuanian peasants)

Became an altogether
Different species
Hence called
City-folk.

Months later
In a Japanese hotel
In Kobe (Jerusalem
Of ancient Japan)
When Maya
(a peasant girl
And whore)
Asked me to marry her
And I said
”I cannot”
We embraced
And both of us wept.

Maya then took me
To the shrine
For fucked-up and
Aborted children.

    I did not fully
Understand why
But months later
    While drilling a sock
    I had an inkling.
    Of her despair.

My last week
I told a sargeant
Brown-nosing his way
Into officers’ school
To ”go fuck!”
And was ordered
To dig a latrine.

Back in the States
I chose not
To ship over
And returned to Boston
Where
For reasons unknown
Boston University
Did not accept
My application
To the school of theology.

Wherefore
I took up English
And signed up
For a poetry seminar
Given by the poet
Robert Lowell
Who had written
Prize winning
”Lord Weary’s Castle”.

Indeed,
I had never heard
Of Lowell or his book
Or of confessional poetry.

I do not know how
I came to write:

”...bloodpost
Will become
Life again.

Still, thereafter
I could no more
Make sense
Of anything
For what seemed
Like ages
My incoherance
Refused to cure.

I discovered
(Intuitively I suppose)
That life demanded
I live it through
Rethink my past
Before I dare say
Anything about it.

University bored me
And I became
An auto-didact
And tried my hand
At other arts:

sculpture and paint.
These took no words
to do.

When I said good bye
To mother
Before returning
To the all too quickly
Fucked up
‘Renewed Latvija’

Mother told:

”I have made my peace
With God”
As if it was God
Who had
Fucked her up.

    So, here I am
Perhaps to meet her
Soon again.

Oh, I nearly forgot.

The woman
Who endured me
For 30 years
Called me
‘finches mouth’
And during an argument
Pointed her finger
At her open mouth
And gaged me.

In an instant
Thirty years
Turned into a Neverland.

As a Greek vase painting
pictures it:

Here is Jason
Spit
From the serpent’s gut
Well cooked
In the heat of towering
Nuclear Cities.