It’s a dope way to die, I guess. Suicide by poem.
We are living, but can’t feel the land where we stay,
More than ten steps away you can’t hear what we say.
But if people would talk on occasion,
They should mention the Kremlin Caucasian.
His thick fingers are bulky and fat like live-baits,
And his accurate words are as heavy as weights.
Cucaracha’s moustaches are screaming,
And his boot-tops are shining and gleaming.
But around him a crowd of thin-necked henchmen,
And he plays with the services of these half-men.
Some are whistling, some meowing, some sniffing,
He’s alone booming, poking and whiffing.
He is forging his rules and decrees like horseshoes –
Into groins, into foreheads, in eyes, and eyebrows.
Every killing for him is delight,
And Ossetian torso is wide.
Thank you for being sincere. To be honest, I find talking to Westerners/Americans about the USSR really exhausting. It all feels like either one big meme or a purely theoretical argument, not people’s lives. When I look at my family, and at their other Soviet friends, and how the culture there is now more generally, I just feel like… it left so much indirect trauma and fucked with their way of thinking. I don’t think of free speech as the most important right blablabla. But it also makes me uncomfortable when my parents watch some random short film about a girl getting arrested for reading a book on a tram and their first reaction is “ahahahhaha serves you right, idiot, you have to read it by candlelight in the dead of night, duhh.” I don’t know if, in hind sight, repression was worth it.