resin hit for kot matroskin (confessions of the damned pt. 2)

17 Jul

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resin hit for kot matroskin (c.o.t.d. 02)

 

Why do I see soldiers marching with their heads tilted to the right on TV tonight
shouldn’t you be facing ahead if you’re holding an automatic weapon
perhaps be slightly concerned with poking someone in the back with your barrel
seems terribly uncouth
but it should be as of no surprise
people hardly make sense anymore
and I’m drowning in their stygian inanity
My former nation, the one of dancing bears
struggles with a populace that loves to suffer
especially with empty, silentious words
hovering in the atmosphere around their lips
(the bottom ones always swelling from the samagon
until they resemble saucers, like my homey Fedya
once described his cold Samsonov)
“it can always be worse” as it quite honestly has been in the past
and they use their history of being mutts
as excuse to despotize over any other Slavs within throwing distance
My new nation, the one of idealism and comic books
struggles with a populace that refuses suffering
and instead decides ignobly to ignore
that their oligarchs dressed as legislators
have decided around twenty-five years ago or so
that the profit-over-people stratagem
is the right one for a republic ambiguously screeching freedom
they’ve been waiting to give up on us a while
trust me, I’ve been around
none of it, nobody makes sense
So I sit here, jotting
thoughts, fragmentary but densely thrown unto the white
and pack my bowl for a resin hit
because I ran out of weed
and I’m trying not to drink as much
but still I can’t manage to lilt in full sobriety
things tend to spuriously reintroduce themselves as serious
and exceedingly more somber than they are
they keep me concerned more than they should
because in all, it doesn’t really matter
the ending was written long ago
(as was that cliché)
but for me to keep from raging against it all
I get high
put on a record by this Jersey City underground MC named Viro
who died a couple of months after they though the world would end in 2012
and I’ll be fine, though slightly dumb
imagining beautiful, compassionate and of course naked women
who touch themselves after reading sonnets
then cry themselves to sleep
and eventually I’ll finish the book I always claim to be working on
and it’ll be good and briefly well-regarded
and in forty years, a young man resembling me
both in perspective and whiskey breath
will buy a copy of it for a dollar seventy-five
from a street vendor of secondhand paperbacks
plying his mothy wares in front of some privately funded university
run by a spectacled, stocky grumbler resembling a tweed-skinned Escobar
that everyone secretly resents
and this kid will read my book
and maybe he’ll be inspired
and he’ll begin with a few confessing verses of his own
and eventually the craft will become his own cherry-picked damnation
while the air grows thin
and people continue getting stranger
and less and less worthwhile
and more and more pointlessly provocative
and the kid will remain jotting, so very alone
like I once was
but I’ll be in my kitchen by this time
hoary as Silenus
eating my final sandwich
making sure to remember how good it tasted
when I flipped it upside down

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