Best Kremlin Poems
A missive postkard from Russia to Amerika:
Deer Amerikan elekted leaders:
Yuri headlight Magnitsky bad policy,
of swift monetary attrition Ru$$ian decision,
have sanktion krashed our ekonomy
Das black ice spangled action
send our oligarchy Soviet markets
ruble roulette spinning
Such rogue demokracy konduct
make the proletariat people suffer much
in das Motherland
Why show such sub-zero Siberian love?
Can Supreme Politburo we
speak Kremlin kandidly:
Why must das trafficking bald eagle
blow das trump
so elektion help unfriendly?
Sekrecy is valued above all
in das Ural heartland
Kabal charakter is a klandestine
medal of distinktion
Thus unofficially, this solemn body SP
send back channel love
to our silver sly komrades
in das golden land of merchant liberty
We Bolshevik hate
that some had to double agent make
das gulag cell sakrifice
We Lenin love
that these Marxist martyrs embraced
das dictator way of life
May their kompromat ruble greed
be planted deeply
in das hallowed halls of demokracy
Let more Stalinist tears of tyranny
be shipped freely
unto das twin shores of coin liberty
Sadly, propaganda fear
has submarine surfaced once again,
between past Alaskan trading partners —
Northern exposure former friends
Yuri czar truly
would yield Molotov easy détente bend
Allow Vladdy us
to make Manchurian Kandidate amend
From Russia with love,
we silo kisses send this Kremlin postkard to Amerika
Kandid spy picture of
our subterfuge gift: Cold hypo-kritical mass hysteria
Forgive broken translation,
due to heavy mushroom kloud interference
Yuri truly,
admire Khrushchev much
such elekted kompassionate patience
of das unwavering flag treachery
About an hour later she slipped
Yuri Andropov into the conversation:
*“I have to drop off a blouse at the dry cleaners.”*
Suddenly it was May Day &
I’m back in Red Square,
Dwarfed beneath larger than life
Lenin, Engels & Marx mug shots.
Inter-continental ballistic lorry loads
Roll past the reviewing stand, while
Geezer Reds in Ushanka fur hats,
Soused on *Stoli,* reeking of borscht,
Chain-smoke cheap Soviet Belomors.
I share these thoughts, handing
Mrs. Khrushchev the car keys.
Having cowered herself in terror,
Having ducked & covered many
Burial promises & shoe-pound threats,
She gives me a tired babushka smirk.
We are conjugal Cold Warriors,
Both weary now, creeping up on 70,
Skirmishes & brinksmanship behind us.
Tolerant of each other at last;
Lukewarm *détente* between us.
Above a pulsating arrow of two great Russian rivers,
there, where Oka merges to Volga
and already flows farther downstream,
to the Caspian sea,
an ancient, wise Kremlin stands – like a soldier
on high coast of the big ancient city of the Russia, Nizhni Novgorod.
Kremlin looks very attentively at boundless meadows
and at cultivated fields and forests,
the small villages and big cities
of the Nizhniy Novgorod territory.
The white ships float past,
They salute the old soldier and ask its blessing.
Birches and mountain ashes, wild cherries and apples
in springtime decorate this coast with fresh greenery and flowers,
In the autumn – with gold of leaves and with red fruits.
The ancient Kremlin looks far and never sleeps.
It observes all around and welcomes the ships,
recollects the events, the dates, people.
Maybe, sometime Kremlin will recollect me also,
Because I was born in ancient Nizhniy Novgorod,
on the high coast of these two great Russian rivers.
LUXURY TO LAMENT
When the temperature outside says you should be hot
Except you’re mother f*****g cold in every spot
When you’re laying in a luxurious four-poster bed
Scoring some dope is the only thought in your head
When my bones ache every time I move
A body doesn’t need anything else to prove
I feel the sweat but wet my body shouldn’t be
While Bobby next door has dope but he ain’t giving it away free
I’ve got holes in my pocket, my shirt and in my shoes
But the body doesn’t need any other kind of clues
You grow more uncomfortable in that luxurious bed
And your only option is to hit some old lady with a rock over the head
But you’re shaking and your body is making you pay
I’m only twenty three yet my hair is turning grey
I’m lying on a luxurious four-poster bed
And my only option could be the morgue………., home for the dead
(c) 2011....phreepoetree