Jun 2018
Tolstoy, Beethoven, Joyce and Dylan are geniuses no one can argue with—
While I feel like my life is one big missed opportunity—
Where is the ugly girl of my dreams and my beautiful Jewish wife,
Somewhere else but not here, in a parallel universe,
Where is my beautiful mistress, a little crazy but all right—
Where are my 3D glasses, oh, yeh, right here—
Beside the volumes of Marquis De Sade, Heronymous Bosch and TS Eliot,
Geniuses no one can argue with no matter how they try—
Maybe if I had more *** I'd have not given up on love,
I can't wait to get back to the Crimea as hellish as that sounds—
I'll cherish the torment and the battles to come with the white-eyed Russians,
Salty coffee and a prayer for clean water to come gushing up through the mud—
Bird songs at dawn, Kathleen and Elise willing,
The Russian soldiers march right at us with their heads cut off,
The blonde ones barefoot or in high heels, I was enchanted and wanted to call it love
But there is no love in hell, no true love anyway, just the illusion—
Doing laundry, Jessica wet and sour stinking of **** and ******,
An old woman's carcass rotting in a garbage can—
A mother spreading her *******, we've seen this before,
Genius or disturbed pulling off her stocking in the lantern's flicker,
I pray everyday all day for a mother's breast to suckle,
Genius's pale dawn familiar beauty corrupted by the tide her face collapsing
Doll-like lantern jawed teacher's pet,
This war against redheaded Satan could go on forever yet I see the end in sight
Measured in meters and then there's Japan—
Turing's machine sent a man to prison without his eyes,
Asian starlight piercing her nose all the way back to the Crimean front,
Praying in lip service and sign language to throw someone's mother in prison—
Winter storms notwithstanding a mother's sagging **** won't stop her
From yelling her head clean off or making the sign of the holy cross—
Or the men from eating the nasty meat from her broken robotic skull,
The small hipped Russian ****** moaning like priests,
As Phoebe bends over pushing her *** in my face and gives the colonel the finger
Her soul filled triangle opens and all I see is whiteness,
Her geometry incomprehensible I think she's falling in love—
The bridge gushing stale kisses to the invisible father—
And the three headed infant, she smiles red toothed—
If I could have Phoebe I wouldn't need anything else
except a looking glass in an antique frame,
A skinny French girl is better than a fleshy German one
But an English cow is better than both and an American pig is still more desirable—
No one can argue with God's genius or the smell of red roses
Or a Russian brunette's feet when she comes in from the rain
While I feel like my life is one big missed opportunity—
Where is the ugly girl of my dreams and my beautiful Jewish wife,
Somewhere else but not here, in a parallel universe,
Where is my beautiful mistress, a little crazy but all right—
Where are my 3D glasses, oh, yeh, right here—
Beside the volumes of Marquis De Sade, Heronymous Bosch and TS Eliot,
Geniuses no one can argue with no matter how they try—
Maybe if I had more *** I'd have not given up on love,
I can't wait to get back to the Crimea as hellish as that sounds—
I'll cherish the torment and the battles to come with the white-eyed Russians,
Salty coffee and a prayer for clean water to come gushing up through the mud—
Bird songs at dawn, Kathleen and Elise willing,
The Russian soldiers march right at us with their heads cut off,
The blonde ones barefoot or in high heels, I was enchanted and wanted to call it love
But there is no love in hell, no true love anyway, just the illusion—
Doing laundry, Jessica wet and sour stinking of **** and ******,
An old woman's carcass rotting in a garbage can—
A mother spreading her *******, we've seen this before,
Genius or disturbed pulling off her stocking in the lantern's flicker,
I pray everyday all day for a mother's breast to suckle,
Genius's pale dawn familiar beauty corrupted by the tide her face collapsing
Doll-like lantern jawed teacher's pet,
This war against redheaded Satan could go on forever yet I see the end in sight
Measured in meters and then there's Japan—
Turing's machine sent a man to prison without his eyes,
Asian starlight piercing her nose all the way back to the Crimean front,
Praying in lip service and sign language to throw someone's mother in prison—
Winter storms notwithstanding a mother's sagging **** won't stop her
From yelling her head clean off or making the sign of the holy cross—
Or the men from eating the nasty meat from her broken robotic skull,
The small hipped Russian ****** moaning like priests,
As Phoebe bends over pushing her *** in my face and gives the colonel the finger
Her soul filled triangle opens and all I see is whiteness,
Her geometry incomprehensible I think she's falling in love—
The bridge gushing stale kisses to the invisible father—
And the three headed infant, she smiles red toothed—
If I could have Phoebe I wouldn't need anything else
except a looking glass in an antique frame,
A skinny French girl is better than a fleshy German one
But an English cow is better than both and an American pig is still more desirable—
No one can argue with God's genius or the smell of red roses
Or a Russian brunette's feet when she comes in from the rain
