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.]