Rural resuscitation

Please attend what I am saying
would you attend my every word?

























After the pataphysical dissertation in the auric hall, whose walls are bathed in a thin sheet of gold, the personage and his shadow walked unapologetically away, toward a retired cabinet full of welcoming calefaction:

the corners of every Petrograd's street only saw hairless dogs barking at the snow flakes, which descended in the air, slow, horrible, covering the sidewalks of December:

how to live?




2. The wooden realms of death

His eyes manifest damnation
thoughts that cannot be fully understood are emitted by his eyeballs, while his stare is fixed on seven pages of dry paper... behind him, from a portrait that decorates a wall, Our Lady of Kazan beholds him:

the man Rasputin turns his back violently from his wooden chair, stands up, and insults the Virgin and her son Jesus Christ with a blasphemy in sibilant Siberian dialect, waiving his genitals in front of the portrait, like an abstruse but true way to demonstrate his faith

his eyes are coals alight his eyes

the Madonna, mother of God, she understands every human language:
her image disappears in front of the blasphemy
and returns

amorous her eyes, maternal, invincible
sharper than a needle in an optical nerve, the desk illuminating:


the man, a Siberian rustic, he cries, as the frame of the portrait shines with the greenness of the jade.


And there are revolvers that probably would respond to the call of his flesh.
Tonight

or any tomorrow's night.




3. My flesh

A certain figurine of the nobility invites the holyman to know the humid fruit of his young wife... a strange rendez-vous in the house of a rich man, a date with destiny:

when they arrive at the manor the wife is not there

the host serves the monk some victuals at his carpeted cellar, and leaves the mystic alone there.
Everything is poisoned with urine and silver nitrate.

The quietist degusts the poisoned pastries and wine as a nimbus crowns his head forming negative ions in the air, like the halogen gloriole of Saint George in London.

Strangely the holyman doesn't die
the venom is ineffective
the dose is ineffectual:

the nobleman returns to the cellar with a gun or pistolette, accompanied by other co-conspirators, everybody shoots on the starets, who falls of the tepid carpet of the alcove with his mouth full of pasteles.


Five more assassins appear at the door, and shoot the psychic over and over again, riddling him with bullets:

Rasputin still respires
the men, alarmed, wrap him with a Persian carpet, tie him like a matambre, and transport the body to the river in a diligence

throw him to the gelid waters.

No more. No more.




4. Hail and farewell to Britain

... Where I am.
Oh Lord, evil men surrounded me in my casket of death, and still I am here... but where am I?

The perversity of theirs runs faster than their shady gasps, Lord! Oh don't release them Lord!
Not in front of me!


... And all this luminosity, and all this falling water; and these all these cold mornings indicate that, somehow, I still exist

somewhere

still. 


































Somehow.





5. A rural resuscitation