A Russian Lullaby


Old Molotov drinks

the fire to warm

his black hardened belly

and bottlenecked form.


He chokes on his ragged

torn twisted tongue

that flames with his rage

for the old and the young.


He spins hot and heavy

with Russian delight

as he flies through the air

as he lights up the night.


When the bottle breaks

his body will fall

and down will come everyone

flames for them all.

Your Godless Utopia


What is a god?

Bright-eyed sprouts,

their clumsy dissertations

in primitive dialects

striking profoundly;

Tell’s arrows

plunged deep into

the heart not there

moments before.

Such fragile fingers

whose snowflake touch

emasculates all darkness

fear and loneliness –

Who can stand against

their innocence?


Only the dead

remain unscathed;


No light to burst

a dry husk;


ghastly grips

and warm steel

still smash sprouts –



Sprouts will see

roots will grow

blooming fire

sharp hard hate

traded innocence

for killing cold

to see you burn.


This is your Godless Utopia