Inkwells of Hell

grey concrete doesn't speak about the
meet and greet on Pushkin street
alive and well in expatriate hell
a silk road market of meat
round faces puffy and graceless
Moscow sends them to die
in sickness and death may they breathe their last breath
not a single tear left uncried



we can't seem to get along with anyone
but we get along just fine
we got the heck out of urban development
and now we waste our time
feeding stray cats and writing poetry
in our high desert most sublime



this hell-spread emperor gazes sulfur
a chinless egg sour and dour
somehow this coward rose to power
sets civil livers to roil and smoulder
he shrieks of destruction and disorder
death and rape and blood in oceans
are the only gods of his devotions



ersatz muzhiks on parade
marching witless to their graves
may sheets of aurora's flames cascade
over cadavers of soldiers freshly laid
on fallow fields like monsoon rain
and may their dreams of empire fade
as if a fart from yesterday