Cold, From Putin’s Winter


  • I   –

Five kittens and a mother

A stray puppy, without one

A grieving german shepherd’s head gropes

                                                for the hand that would give it a rub

but encounters empty seats,

with expelled shells from the raining

 artillery.  And milk teeth prematurely harvested.

 The house is cold, from Putin’s winter

leaving spring guns

set to fire by the merest foreshadow of the incoming season

A videoman, from a far country

Drops his head, before his camera’s hard case

His own eyes cannot take in what his camera lens is gobbling up:

A dessert of brown brains

After an appetiser of red soups scooped with blackening craniums.

 Fingers are frozen, on aperture control:  

Hearts are melted

by the glassy eye of the german shepherd still crying for a rub.

Ten minutes ago, he was in breastland

in the Milkyway of her mama’s mammary kindness

now she is clutching at hanging nipples

as mama’s head bows to the demonic accuracy of KalashnikovNIKS

soon it will be Sorochinskaya festival, and

 there will be nothing for little Anna to to feed her eyes on

much less, her stomach

until her mother can, once again

scramble Ukrainian cooking utensils

and get her giggling again  –

in another life

The house is cold, from Putin’s winter

  • II     –

Here, the town planner for the surrogate czar

With a taste for boulevards where Z tanks worship

 the god of haste

                                           This town used to have a little

      corner where the dead could find

                                            A resting place

But now, even the new capital city – Cemeterygrad

Overflowing with half- interred corpses

Can hardly find space for the conquerors’ carrion

And their casks of cigarette butts…

Parks are bulldozed

 for graveyards

and monuments erected with caked remains

of baby cereals

 frozen by angry snows

as broken skulls mount a parade of honour

where the despot’s arm is frozen in mid-salute

 by cramps of retribution

But Putin’s new sepulchres

Cannot tame our love for Russia

We were borne on the wings of the seagull

 Where Chekhov’s gun is more than a play-thing for playwrights

Across the world, children run home for the aroma of mushrooms soups

 But here in Ukraine it is the cremation dust of parents gone home in plumes

The house is cold, from Putin’s Winter

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