Monthly Archives: November 2007

Boule de Neige.

“Hare, what season is it?”
“Is that why there is snow on the ground?”
“Is that why the days are shorter?”
“Is that why there’s another log on the fire?”
“Is that why it is dangerous to skate on the river?”
“Is that why there is frost on the leaves?”
“Is that why children build people out of snow?”
Is that why it’s nearly Christmastime?”
“It’s that why the children are happier then ever?”
“Is that why their fathers will return home to beat them?”
“Is that why Dmitri is sad?”
“Is that why we feel snowed in, or under?”

“Is that why we are never going outside?”



The New Friend

I wrote a letter to a friend who died.

I offered his family
a new one,
made of sand.

All these relics,
in date order,
on my desk.

Time had moved on,
but my friend was still there.

They say it is dangerous
to believe in hearsay.

I began to pinch myself,
while a corpse woke up beside me.

Good morning, dead man.
Are you still my friend?

We may fall apart,
so return to your grave.

Sympathy for the Holiday-Maker

Tokens of past holidays
by my bedside.

I am on the aeroplanes
that shake the roof tiles loose.

I’ve been cruel to all my worry dolls,
and the cryptographer of my diaries.

so here’s the only plan I have:
I’ll leave my breakfast
on the bookshelf.

I’ll pack my dreams,
and the remains of my parents.

I’ll fill up on everyone else’s fresh air
this morning.

I’ll flee the scene of the crime
until there is none

and become a flea:

I’ll make the earth sick.


Like the time
I fell backwards
to hit my head in the museum –

I still dislike seeing dead things
reproduced for my amusement.

I stopped crying for the old man,
thankful for his understanding,
and the tears commenced again
as soon as he left.

A child’s education
is seeing a corpse inside a
glass case.

An adult’s education
is facing Death
writ on the ceiling.

The search for a seam
between this sky
and another,
will spin me anti-clockwise,
I look for spaceships.

The tragedy of the dodo is
that it was naïve,
perhaps well-meaning.

But I can not read the minds of these stuffed birds
which fill the room.

Dmitri and The Deer Girl (Were Once Young Arsonist Lovers)

DMITRI: Knock, Knock.
PETER: Pardon?
DMITRI: Knock, Knock.
PETER: oh…who’s there?
DMITRI: The everpresent wind, but besides that, Nikolai.
PETER: Nikolai who?
DMITRI: Nikolai, but he’s a good man.
DMITRI: You think that’s bad? it doesn’t work at all in Russian.

To My Readers and Friends,

If I may be so bold as to call you friends…Of course I am not expecting you to be. Even in death, I cannot escape loneliness.  The loneliness that has been with me since boyhood. Now I am a dog, and nothing has changed.

Yes, it is I, Dmitri, looking for a lamp and some kerosene. The Hare has gone to warmer climes momentarily. He is happy…dare I say…also momentarily.

Because I wish for my readers some joy, some inspiration, the kind of movement through space-time that only good literature and quality blogging can supply… I will tell you a story.

I met the Deer Girl on a hunting expedition in Krasnoyarsk. Any game is fair game, and I’m not usually that discriminating about whom I kill. God knows, my blood flows on the outside, and I am always thirsty. She was beautiful – predictably so, for Visions encountered in woodland.

Her body was more beautiful than a human’s, and I’ve seen many, loved many, and killed many more. That deer head was becoming of her, and not as unfortunate as it may seem.

Perhaps there was some frolicking, some foolish circular dances…or just some awkward silence. If a tree fell right then, we wouldn’t have heard it.

I took her back to my village, somewhat reluctantly, because I expected the reaction. She was demonised by the villagers. As a demon. Which she wasn’t. If she was, it was because she was sinking in the same tincan boat as I – there were incantations on our heads, and things happened as they did. Circumstances, as they say, outwit us all, and the fish always stinks at the head.

The youth of the village, lacking access to the latest methods of transportation, dreamwork and telepathy, would entertain themselves by setting fire to whatever piece of village real estate looked most objectionable.

One such building was said to house a witch, or rather, a woman whose prettiness was out of step with the ugly buzzard-faces of the villagers. She could be seen from a large diamond-shaped window, being propelled by mysterious forces (and a sophisticated pulley system) from one end of the room to the other, and back again. Sometimes, when the fruits were ripe and the moon was full, you could hear her scream…


Fire is many things, but is rarely tedious. The art of arson can teach a man many things, not least, vitality of character and of libido. This is why I took the Deer Girl to extinguish the witch. “She’ll take to fire like a duck to water”, I said, “her Hare is red”.

We went to the Witch’s house. Though the usual band of sorry players walked with us (so much goodwill, so little style), we were one or, more specifically, two. The air was good, and would carry the fire wherever the Witch wished to travel. Some of us hoped that it would remove her from the village.

“How do we make fire?” said the Deer.

“Well”, I said, “I don’t believe any of us presently have access to a “Lighter”, and if we’re caught rubbing sticks together, we will look like fools. No, this pridicament demands that we relearn the lessons of our ancestors, prehistoric or otherwise.”

I produced from my pocket a hand-bound book full of incantations which I had just improvised that morning, over breakfast and a game of chess.

“Make fire, Dmitri!”, the boys all screamed.

“Ladies and Gentemen, I propose a toasting!” It wasn’t a good pun, but everyone was swept up in the heat of the moment.

“We must be careful, if anyone were to catch a glimpse of us they might take us for something we are not” said one of the more nervous wolves in the pack. 

“To the Witch! May she fly safely!”

I sniffed some indigo powder, and commenced the recitation of a stream of numbers, and some carefully chosen lines of verse:

после модернизма является22063 утомительной. Я очень хотел, хотя ирония. Если вы читаете это вы11072   тратить свое время. Это рассказ о магии. магии нет нич85952его,

“лошадь это где-то, стабильной является где-то в другом месте”

так что не беспокойтесь. Недавно моей мечты мне кошмары, в дневное время. 01101000 01100101 01101100  01110000 Есть здесь много призраков, которые хотели они считают реальной. Мне нравится этот автоматический перевод вещь.

I even spoke some pictures. For a novice magician, this is difficult. My sketching was poor, and may as well have been composed of huge ink blots on toilet roll. My fascination with fire started here, but it would be a long time until I could perfect the art.

The fire started its work.

“With any luck”, I explained, “The fire should singe the ropes that enslave her, freeing her from that demoniacal pulley system. She will no longer have to get up before she goes to bed, to go backwards and forwards eternally, as the curse demands”

“Or it could burn her to death…” said the Deer Girl.

“Now, now” I said, “There is no evidence that fire is capable of such a thing. I’ve seen the evidence, and I refuse to believe it.”

In a mess of antlers, hooves and feet, my love writhed and twisted. She became caught up in a kind of treelike whirlwind, spinning and dripping with blood, as the Witch – screaming and burning to her foundations – looked desperately for a drop of water, or the right counter-spell…

“Моя девочка – А по! Моя олени ребенка!”

The faces of some of the weaker boys shattered inward like glass eggs. One could faintly hear their mother’s voices singing lullabies.

“That is the last time I will love”, I thought, “But not the last time I will play with fire”.