En-route to the Pantheon,
weighing 300 grams more
than the average brain,
nowhere left to penetrate—
no red-syndicate idea like a mountain chain,
no gap for lovelessness, no ‘lasting wounds.’
The state surgeons put down their scalpels
and package you off to the Institute;
your self-atrocity condemned or repurposed—
a slow sinking of The Bathhouse,
the heart slow-sapping,
or for those in God’s good management,
a sin that never ends
until warded off with prayer.
The facts dominate:
A sharp grind to the skull,
A three-day pageant for the multi-thousands.
Vladimir, you are that which great minds have left behind—
precursory genius, a lisp in the ashes.
Vladimir, alas, your agonies, your theatre of nerves,
your ‘jail of nights’ for lack of a party card.
The gossip you’d hate,
as the dead undoubtedly do.
But time strikes late,
just past the hour—the ‘Impossible,’
in-leafed and yelling.