When it was Clear that the Battle was Lost….

When it was clear

that the battle was

lost, the Cimbri

women, swords in

their hands, slew

their fleeing brothers,

fathers, husbands.

When it was clear

that the Romans

had won, the Cimbri

women strangled

their children, then

took their own lives.

Now that it’s clear

that love and poetry

has lost to modernity,

what are we to do? I

don’t believe in killing

children, whether in

the lost world or in

the womb; and you

could argue that to

bring them into this

age, without money

to their names, is an

act of bravery. As for

me, I chose to not

create any, because

I know the fate of a

wage slave. Which

course the Cimbri

women would call

brave or cowardly,

I can’t say.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski, author of Mail-Order Annie

Serpentine Melodies

As the melody of Bach’s Suite in E minor

(BWV 996) snakes up from the signal spark

of elemental life in creation’s chemical froth,

slithers upwards and grows legs on the

greening earth, then scaled wings, colossal

brains, then armored legs striding into ships

sailing across ladles and centaurs of stars for

eons end to end, only to find that there’s no life

at all out there after all; meanwhile, no one on

this frozen Earth remains to recall how we sat

in leased Kias in parking lots and laughed at the

perfect hopelessness of our lives on this ball,

how our jobs and lives were made increasingly

insane and impossible by stuffed suits who sat in

perfect suavity, smirking at the controlled chaos

they created for the many, as we fell to exhaustion,

heart attacks, strokes, insanity, despair, et al., while

the women most equipped by nature of revivifying

those sparks of inner fire in us went to the controllers

and their most brutal minions instead, those masters

held Earth’s best beauties in their arms, as they

smirked above their centuries-crafted chaos, as we,

the street-level slaves, stupid enough to have believed

we were free, slumped over behind the wheels of

leased Kias, cheap beer on our breaths, between

endless errands, in the parking lots of corporations,

bars, dollar stores, death-food joints, strip clubs,

mega-churches, sports arenas, and malls, and

listened on leased car radios, to this or that vivifying

melody that seemed to take us somewhere, anywhere,

oh anywhere else at all….

 

— Fyodor Bukowski, author of MAIL-ORDER ANNIE