EC 663 @ http://esoschronicles.blogspot.com/

The Life Review of Robin Ludd

By © Anton Vendamencsh, 2017

5 A Few Pithies

Consciousness

In our time

Is become memory

Held at bay

By indiference

To others pain

No insight deeper

Than the frog suit

Of one’s vanity.

    It is ”I”

    Abandoned there

    Failing to recover

    ”Here”

    Where unremitting need

Turns every fallen branch

Into fire wood

To cook a fish

I have no qualms

Eating raw and live

As the grizzly does.

    For how long

Can a past event

Remain heir

To the same

Bastard parents?

Wrote Goethe

^{(author of Faust):}

Was du ererbt

Von deinen Vätern hast,
Erwirb es,

Um es zu besitzen.
Was man nicht nützt,

Ist eine schwere Last,
Nur was der Augenblick

Erschafft,

Das kann er nützen.

    I love my cats

    For the Augenblicks

They cherish

With tummies exposed

To lightning strikes

Paws upturned and raised

Praising abandon.

    However,

for all the saintliness

Of cats

    History

From back then

To here and now

Too, is become

an Augenblick

Set in concrete

    by historians

    on government contract

churning cement

    to coat the arms

of States

With a calcium carbonate

Shell.

Murder adds

To things destroyed

Just the right amount

Of lime and lie

To justify

Anniversary celebrations

In hell.

A world

Turned upside down

Makes betrayal

And the impossible

A real miracle.

Rich men

Go hunting

And kill lions

To justify themselves

And take pride

In stuffed heads

And in being fools.

    Meek women

    Lay men

    To spellbind

    Their children

    To a wit

As abraised

As the vaginas

Of their mothers.

Is the eternal ”I”

Made by and of such?

Even my brother

The phrenologist

With a Doctor of Philosophy

(plaque on the wall)

Kept to the consciousness

Of vanities

With mind boggling

Determination.

    His children

With narry a doubt

That God is naught

Still believe

By sleight of mind

In resurrection

And will likely seek

Entombment

In liquid nitrogen

Even as they pay

The maintenance crew

Of the ‘cemetery’

In fiat currency.

All such truthies

May be traced

To Tsar Peter

Who to save

The Russian land

For the Russian Ludds

Made his capital

In St. Petersburg

Instead of Riga

    The latter which

    Remained

    A geopolitical outpost

    Of the Sveriges

    (No surprise

    That by 2018

    Riga has been reoccupied

    By Sturmband NATO

And the Post Soviet

Latvijan government

Its mendacious parrot

Is loudly singing

Cuckcoo

From St. Peter’s spire).

How to get rid

Of NATO

Is the Gordian knot

No sword

But a flash crash

Of city based economies

Will cut.

What happens when

Money loses

Its worth?

Do not the drums

Of nitrogen filled coffins

Collapse?

Does not a life review

Of many centuries past

Drift into view?

    Does no one remember

    That in times out of mind

    Jerusalems

Used to be inns

Where lambs

And travelers

Found themselves

A straw matress?

    A life review

    A judgement

    Or a scene dismissed

    May remind itself

As suddenly

    As a fig in the eye.

The fig shone

Into my blind eye

The beacon

Of a curse

On the beam

Of a hidden regret.

Last night

In a lucid dream

I met

After more

Than fifty years

Silvie.

Though I had chosen

Not to have a career

And had not committed

To changing my mind

(neither one of us

Understood

What this meant)

We were engaged once

To marry.

The dream found Silvie

In Boston

She was in the Commons

Pushing

A baby carriage.

I came up to her

(As to one long lost)

Looked at her

And asked:

Is that you, Silvie?

She turned to me

And met my eye

And turned again

Abruptly

Away from me.

Taken aback

I said:

I am sorry, Silvie

Take care

And continued

My way

Down Beacon Street

To where it ends

I know not.

The babe

In the carriage

I saw not.

For all I know

The babe was

The child

We had not.

Ai, Silvie

As is the way

of dreams

Had I but lived

In the wood

And been

Like Paul Revere

A smith

Of silver horses’ hooves

I would have

Charged you cunt on

And of the blaze

Would our children

Have come.

But I was ‘ererbt’*

^{*(made witness to my inheritance)}

With a curse

As carved

Into my tissues

As the salmonella

A faked up godmother

Carved into her own

With a poetic justice

I would never

Have thought of.

[It took but 13 days

After Milia’s birthday

For the bug

(At the Surmoga gulag

In Solikamsk, Russia)

To incubate

And hatch

And in an Augenblick

On the 23^rd of September

⁽¹⁹⁴¹⁾

Kill Milia and make her

A sacrificial lamb

To the blink of an eye

It takes a swallow

To catch a flie.]

Ludd https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ludd

EC 662 @ http://esoschronicles.blogspot.com/

The Life Review of Robin Ludd

By © Anton Vendamencsh, 2017

4 The Story of Father

Father’s brother

(Who outpaced him

By eight years)

Uncle Karl

Born 1884

Died 1910

At the age of

Twenty-six

(According to rumor

    Of syphillis

    contracted

    As a student

    In St. Peterburg)

Was the one who

Brought his father

From St Peterburg

(A relay junction

At the time

Of ideas

From America)

News

That a newspaper

May be published

For pennies

If advertisements pay

For the rest.

Grandfather

Having failed

As a playwright

(He was too much

Of a moralizer

To write other than

A ‘How to’ script

Of how work

Work and more work

Is the tool

That brings wealth)

Took the idea

And shared it

With his paramour

Who (it so happened)

Was soliciting adds

For German newspapers

In Riga.

Mein liebes Schatz

(My dear treasure)

Said grandfather

(Who spoke German well)

Let us start

A newspaper

Of our own

You pimp us ads

I will persuade

The public

That we are

On the up and up

(No alcohol

Or any of that)

I will choose

What we print

And who

Gets paid what.

My prohibitionist play

”In Fog With Alcohol”

Is evidence

Of my forthrightness

And vision

    We will become rich

    As trains carry

Our newspaper

Of news

And the story

Of Tarzan

To Luddies expelled

From the wood

To slave as peasants

    For the barons

And church.

Milia saw

Her opportunity

And answered:

    I will do it, dear

If you but let me be

The publisher

Since you

Cannot be such

Until you make

Enough money

To pay off

Your creditors.

    So offered

    My Godmother-to-be

    Her word of honor

    To her lover

Ensnared by debt

By virtue of

His ambition

To be reborn

As a City-zen

Of consequence.

Once the headmaster

Of the best

Countryside school

Anywheres near about

Grandfather desperate

To join the eruption

Of Tsargrad Riga

Into a City

Believed to have

Megalo-politic

Potential

Took the hussy up

On what he believed

Was a pulp fiction dream

Beyond her reach.

    The rest is history

    He and his

    Got tripped

    Royally

By diligently

Faked loyalty.

After returning

From the Ukraine (1920)

(where he had learned

Managerial skills

As an officer

Managing a coalmine

A railroad station
And had advised

The would be tsar

General Denikin

On the railway network

In Ukraine)

Father began working

At The Latest News

And continued

the newspaper’s mission—

To bind

A million Latvijan Ludds

Emerging

Out of the woods

Into City-zens*

^{*a mental condition}

Of ambition.

Whatever his hopes

Father

A man of pretention

And station

Was let down

By his addiction

To intimacies

Irresponsible

Demanding

Temperemental

Immature

And painful

To all witnesses

Who had to pretend

Indiference

As if such was

God’s ‘normal’.

In the end

Milia became

His Harpie

By circumstance

In the seventh ring of hell

On Earth

Where trees are replaced

By skyrises of concrete

Rising into fogs

Of money.

Even his mother-in-law

My other grandmother

Could not shut up

About it

And cawed

(in a letter to mother

Years later)

Inuendoes

that tried to cover up

The sale

by her husband

The ambassador

Of their spoiled daughter

To grandfather

Who to cover

His son’s peccadillos

(I have two half-sisters

That I know of)

And his own

Embarrassement

Presented mother

To father

And ordered marriage.

He did not cut

Father’s salary

Which maybe why

His conduct

Remained as before.

    Cawed the mother

Of my mother:

    How I prayed

    For you, my dear

    When you married

    John.

Mother

In need of a vindication

For her own role

In letting children

Be fucked up on her

Did not protest

And let nannies

Raise her children

As if motherless.

Only my younger brother

(Born in the year

Before the world collapsed

And all nannies

Ran away)

Ever lived with mother

Who never mentioned

Father to him.

Which is why

For naked advantage

He slipped his foot

Under my heel.