Wits' End

A youth filled with everything
Every outcome
Every end.

fell dead;
like culture;
the death of which provoked him.

Yours,
SiBot

Moon Gazer

Franz Masereel

I can't sleep. Light a candle?
Only there are no matches.
The whole world is silent, and I am silent,
I gaze at the lunar light.

And think: how many eyes
In just this same silence,
At such a quiet, clear hour
Are trained on the moon.

How tedious it must be to swim
Above our heads,
To coat strange windows with silver
And to see so many eyes.

A century ahead, a century back,
But in the world all is the same-
Dogs bark, and dreamers
Gaze out the window.

G. Ivanov - 1931.

In hours like these...

Past one o’clock. You must have gone to bed.
The Milky Way streams silver through the night. 
I’m in no hurry; with lightning telegrams
I have no cause to wake or trouble you. 
And, as they say, the incident is closed.
Love’s boat has smashed against the daily grind. 
Now you and I are quits. Why bother then
To balance mutual sorrows, pains, and hurts. 
Behold what quiet settles on the world. 
Night wraps the sky in tribute from the stars.
In hours like these, one rises to address 
The ages, history, and all creation.

-Vladimir Mayakovsky

Yours, 

SiBot

Carousel

Scale continuous

rolls 
 the staff 
  cylindrical; 

never             flat.
          falling 
                 

















Painting ~ Konstantin Yuon, 1913.

Yours,

SiBot

Today's Nonsense

"—You think I'll weep;

Lynd Ward

No, I'll not weep: I have full cause of weeping,
But this heart shall break into a hundred
thousand flaws,
Or ere I'll weep; O Fool, I shall go mad."

"Gradually there settles down a dreadful, eternal silence of the cemetery. All go mad, without words, they realise what is happening within them, and make up their minds for the last shift: to hide their grief for ever from men, and to speak in commonplace, trivial words which will be accepted as sensible, serious, and even lofty expressions. No longer will anyone cry: "Life is a waste," and intrude his feelings on his neighbours. Everybody knows that it is shameful for one's life to be a waste, and that this shame should be hidden from every eye. The last law on earth is—loneliness..." 

Résigne-toi, mon coeur, dors ton sommeil de brute!

(Resign yourself, my heart, sleep your brutish sleep) 

-Lev Shestov: Apotheosis of Groundlessness

Regards,

SiBot

Phoneticism / Maya-krazy

Willow,

   though phonetically unsound...

Kruchenykh would be proud; 

such sonorousness!

whistled in wind. 

Such words, phrases.

Mean everything,

To no-one;

But you, Life.

plangent with me,

you are, indeed.                                                                                                

-Regards, SiBot

(instead of a letter)
              
Tobacco smoke has consumed the air.
The room
is a chapter in Kruchenykh's inferno.
Remember -
beyond that window
in a frenzy
I first stroked your hands.
You sit here today
with an iron-clad heart.
One more day
you'll toss me out,
perhaps, cursing.
In the dim front hall my arm,
broken by trembling won't fit right away in my sleeve.
I'll run out,
throw my body into the street.
I'll rave,
wild,
lashed by despair.
Don't let it happen
my dear,
my darling,
let us part now.
After all
my love
is a heavy weight
hanging on you
no matter where you go.
Let me bellow a final cry
of bitter, wounded grievance.
If you drive a bull to exhaustion
he will run away,
lay himself down in the cold waters.
Besides your love
I have
no ocean
and your love won't grant even a tearful plea for rest.
When a tired elephant wants peace
he lies down regally in the firebound sand.
Besides your love
I have
no sun,
but I don't even know where you are and with whom.
If you tortured a poet like this,
he
would berate his beloved for money and fame,
but for me
no sound is joyous
but the sound of your beloved name.
I won't throw myself downstairs
or drink poison
nor can I put a gun to my head.
No blade
holds me transfixed
but your glance.
Tomorrow you'll forget
that I have crowned you,
that I burned my flowering soul with love,
and the whirling carnival of trivial days
will ruffle the pages of my books...
Would the dry leaves of my words
force you to a stop
gasping for air?

At least let me
pave with a parting endearment
your retreating path.

Lilichka, Vladimir Mayakovsky, 

Petrograd, 1916

http://themattgonzalezreader.wordpress.com/2009/06/15/lets-bellyache/

Neo-Futurist

Futurist made his stand

earning the wrath of hipsters;

more modern than they.

turning back in time

outdid their modernity;

Forever avant-garde.

SiBot.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EiZ4exdJr2M