EC 664 @ http://esoschronicles.blogspot.com/

The Life Review of Robin Ludd

By © Anton Vendamencsh, 2017

6 With Hazel Wand in Hand

So far,

Civilization

Means no more

Than rape of Earth

By vultures

Come to cities

Where humankind

Joins its fucked up young

Play scientists

And God.

The same Devil be

Its own government device

Made me lose

my virginity

At age eleven in a toilet

Of the Gdansk

Maritime University

Sheltering refugees

Fleeing the Ostfront

Bloodbaths

The last images

Of which

For me

Are the bellies

Of dead horses

Drawn by cranes

From the ship’s

deepest hold

And thrown overboard

To float

In the Baltic Sea

In sight

Of the once

Amber mines

Of sacred

Old Prussian kings

The Krihvi

Fortune tellers

Of the Balts.

The story goes

There was one

Such Krihv

Who sacrificed a boar

To throw it

Into the sea

And scare off

His cousins

The Poles turned

Christian invaders.

The priests

Of the Herders

(The Balts

Were not hunters

But earned their

Winter dress

At sacrificial fires)

Scared off

The half-Christian globalists

Because they were
Still half-pagans.

No such luck

In my time.

Now sailors with

Automatic rifles

Strafed the ribs and bellies

Of the dead horses

With bullet thuds

That ripped their midrifts

into rags

And let the spirit out.

Such the stage setting

Of my initiation rite

To sexual love:

My little prick

In the hand

Of an older boy

    War forgiving

him and me

our license.

   

In Weimar

I learned to say

”Heil ‘Itla” well

And watched

The theatre burn

Flames roaring from

Its arched windows

And a man

From a clearing crew

From Buchenwald

Falling before me

On his knees

Begging for

A bread bun

He had seen

In my shopping basket.

    Well indoctrinated

    (To better remember?)

I refused him.

And mother

Left alone

And desperate

Fucked me and

Father again

By way of

Making love

To a Luftwaffe Officer

Stationed in Muenchen

Come to visit

His parents

Who wore

The sign of the wheel

Of the counterclock Sun

But took no fear

Of the name Benjamin

Nor asked

Whether I was circumcized.

The desparing wife

Of Hans

In full panic mode

Wrote mother and asked

(I read the letter):

Do you wish

To break up my family?

If I was still unlearned

in life’s visiscitudes

I was learning fast.

Abandoned to the n^th

I already knew well

How to make drill

With my hand

And spill piss and seed

Into a pile of sand

In the attick

(Put there

To douse the flames

In case

Phosphorus bombs

Fell through the roof).

    Hans, the pilot,

Came with us

    The night

    The bombs fell on Ehrfurt

    And we watched

    Dresden burn

    Two dark nights

Running

While Churchill

In London

Had an orgasm

Sucking

A Havanna cigar.

I knew by then

But was not 

Encouraged

By mother

To know more

That “Was du ererbt ....

Erwirb es, 

Um es zu besitzen”.

I swore

I would somehow

Learn to write

Well enough

And tell

What I had seen

But understood not

And what kill

As a half-wit

I had done

And knew not:

Offering seeds

To a hundred sparrows

In the rose bush

To come feed

On the trigger

Of a rat trap

Set on the path

To the cow barn.

What father said

But did not know

He would not live

To tell

But by way of

A son

He wished to teach

(at age five)

To shoot a toy rifle

But who

By the grace of God

Began to cry

And did not.

Even so,

by screaming

A tantrum of prayers

To keep father alive

And bouncing

All over the bed

I was led

To loathing and insulting

The love

That had passed me by.

There were days

I fucked mother

With wild tandrums

Good

And she

Uncomprehending

She had been fucked

For lack of love

By her son

Fell to the floor

As if hit by a stroke

Which son then

Ran to her side

And offered her

Sugared water

To drink

To cover up

His sin.

No father

Took me

To the whore house

Where orphaned girls

faked love

For one and all.

No mother

Seduced me

Or taught me

(When thunder

Chased us to hide

Under the same

Blanket)

To be gentle

With my bride.

War was

My guru starling

Screaming

From between

the cat’s paws

”Spare, spare

Spare me!

My nest is

Full of nestlings”.

God insisted

There was

No other way

Living death

Can be taught

To be feared

Except one learns

It brings

An end

To pain and fear

And unconditional love

belongs

Even to Ivan the Terrible’

Stalin, or Churchill.

Cindy said

I was a macho male;

Silvie said

He has such

A beautiful soul

And I was left

Wondering

Why the need

For love on Earth

Turns into

Its obverse

overnight

As when

The abandoned cat

(In post-Soviet Latvia

Its human relations

Gone off to England

To pluck feathers

Off parboiled chickens

In chicken factories)

Came in the night

Visiting me

Seeking a savior

And found an old towel

To die on

In the shed

Next to my

Countryside hovel.

Nor are the cat’s relations

Any better off.

Gone off to England

(Still an empire of lies)

The human drags

Die where they will

As forlorn

As the Lithuanians

(Once fleeing

Military service

In the tsar’s army)

Died and

Did not return

But remained

In Chicago.