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
Which make
Jesus
Their customer?
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
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
Into forgettings
toilet.
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
Had everyone twerk
Their bums.
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 Saeima
Of Latvija
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
Drove them to the
city
Whereafter their
homesteads
And sacred
groves
In the forest
Were replaced
By 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.
Yet God’s ways
May manifest
even in stranger
ways.
For once
He 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 world
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
Ten million euros
Of the Eurojackpot
May be mine
And a dysfunctional Zafira
May be exchanged
So Joanna
May drive to Wolmar
Where she bakes
Pancakes in a hotel
And earns a living
For herself
And her children
Twerked to life
By the likes of pigs.
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.
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