EC708 This is a
REENTRY of re-edited
EC664 [Latvian
version: “LIECINIEKS (Citas vēstures stāstam)”]s
The Life Review of Robin Ludd/ A Family Epic
By © Anton Vendamencsh,
2017
7 Loop de Loop
A train
Took us
A few hundred
A few days before
The arrival
Of the victorious
Bolsheviks
And brought us
A military camp
(To this day)
In a wood
Threwn with
Two feet long
Pencil shaped
Phosphorus bombs
Vilseck was
Jerusalem
For the unwanted
Who
(once deloused)
Hastened to
Try save their heirs
And had the poet
Finish 5th grade
In 3 months
Remembering which
Marathon
Brings to mind
Even 73 years later
The will
The will
(For some reason)
The devastated had
To survive
Indeed,
It was this
Despairing will
That usesd pareidolia*
To spell
‘Kasern’
‘castle’
‘castrum’
‘al quasr
And have it beome
J-e-r-u-s-a-l-e-m
While rule
By slander twists
‘Salem’
To ‘slavl’
To make Yarosalem
And cause the English
Forget
That ‘yarn’
Was once a lamb
Spelled ‘ghern’.
Which words
Put together
Become a mattres
On a straw threwn floor
For soldiers
Lambs
Or luddies
from Nottingham
Turned out of home
By missionaries
Bringing
Righteousness
By force and violence?
*Pareidolia is a form of mental activity (somtimes called
a ‘fake’ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BgPinqi2jwU
some other times ‘religion’) that in our age of murderous straight-edged vision.is
denied legitimacy. It is often used by ‘losers’ to escape a head on attack by making
a side step and letting the killer crash and eat dirt.s
Hence by way of
Bamberg, Amberg,
To 12 Beutauklingen Strasse
In Esslingen am Neckar
Whence on to New York
And Boston
Where some nice people
Keeping a house
Full or orphans
Gave me room and board
In return for
A helping hand
Where
In the afternoons
Ol’ Smittie and I
Played
Endless gaumes
Of chess
Whereafter
If Smittie was the loser
Smittie was succored
(To the chagrin
Of Deloris)
by Nellie
In the attick bedroom.
For a few years
I was anchored
But I did not
Sink roots
(Had Nellie
But laid me)
Though
Valvala
Listened to me
Play the
harmonica
And spoke
The nicest words
I ever heard:
”I am ready
For you, Robin!
I am ready !”
But robbed
Of my inheritance
By Intrigue’s stepson
Who frightened away
From everything
Not money
Made wish
Mother and hers
Die of neglect
By the
More fit.
Irony was
On a rampage
And the world was
Upsidedown.
News came
Intrigue my godmother
had died1941.09.23
Of diarrhea and
Stomach cramps
At the Solimska saltmiles
A gulag there
In my mother’s
Mother’s arms
Two weeks
After buying
A salmonella spoiled
Can of sprats
To celebrate
her birthday1881.09.10*.
*Salmonella poisoning takes more than a week before one
dies of it.
Shortly
I found myself
—Three days
After the armistice
Of a United Nations
War—
In Inchon
Among
fucked-up men
like myself
Doing my bit
For humankind
Born of asphalt
And
Like all
Reality starved
City-zens
stared bewildered
At bare breasted
Korean peasant women
Walk ten paces behind
Their husbands
Who flicked the vipers
Come sun on the road
Back into the
Rice paddy.
Still, when
In our tent
The peasant’ daughters
Went from
cot to cot
Selling us
Meat
Twirking
Between their legs
I turned
to my other side
Wherefore
My brothers-in-arms
Soon called me
‘Stuck-up’.
Trapped
With no outs
But a navy
Standard issue
Holy writ
To the sons
Of who knows
who
Or whence
I did my best
To remain
sovereign.
Months later on ‘rest
And recuperation’
In a Japanese
Whorehouse
In Kobe
(Once capital city
Of Japan)
When one Maya
asked me
”Will you marry me?”
And I blunted ”No”
We both embraced
And wept.
Maya then took me
To the shrine
For fucked-up children
Trashed
Yet sitting
Dressed up
As pretty dolls
On the temple’s shelves.
I fully
Understood
Maya’s despair
Only decades
later
(when by way of
many
Loop de loops
through
Many a
labyrinth)
Back in Latviain
the 1990s
I asked
A fiftyish
hitchhiker
What she
thought of
The country regaining
Its independence,
She looked at
me
Touched my hand
(not my thigh)
And replied:
”I am almost
ready
To become
A whore.”
I did no take
her
Up on it,
Or assist us
In committing
Moral suicide
By handing her
Twenty dollars
The going price
for
A piece of
pussy.
No Latvian
churchman
Knew to teļl
The story of
St. Agnes https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Agnes_of_Rome
The raped Roman
lamb
But watched her
Reincarnations
Dragged along
The highways
And byways
Of once upon a
time
God’s-country
And proved that
In Latvia
All Moravians
Were long dead.
Done serving
my naturalized country
I told a sargeant
Pulling rank
”Go fuck yourself!”
And was sent
To dig a hole
To be filled
With shit
By my replacement.
I refused to ship over
And returned to Boston
Where
For reasons unknown
Boston University
Refused my application
To study theology.
Perhaps
The doormen
Of the department
Knew
I was capable
Of telling them
To go fuck as well.
Wherefore
I took to English
And signed up
For a poetry seminar
Given by Robert Lowell
Who had written
Prize winning
”Lord Weary’s Castle”.
Though I had
heard of
Herzog Bluebeard https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U3w_8jTsdd8
I had never heard of
Skunk Hour
Or ‘confessional’ poetry.
But for one
Pilloried
my poem
After all the years
Between
Nevertheless
Was tellingly
Full of vengeance
I wrote:
”...bloodpost
Will become
Life again”.
Still, thereafter
I could no more
Make sense
Of anything.
Incoherance
Seemed beyond cure.
I was too young.
Life demanded
I live it all
Learn it fully
Rethink it
Before I dare
Paradol it.
So, here I am
At eighty-six
As the Greek vase
pictures it:
Et al
spit from
The serpent’s gut
Like a fish
Parboiled
Morally raped and
outraged
In the righteous
Steams
of Cities
gone mad.
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