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LITTLE YEVGENY
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7 * kind of tropical hardwood tree used in making furniture LITTLE YEVGENY Upon viewing a TV documentary on Chernobyl and its likes. The very likelihood of their recurrence. Of sorrow, once, I died For little Yevgeny Born into ‘ego-lunacy’; One more son Of that soil, watered By hemlock rivers On pity, once, I surfeited Dying For little Yevgeny, walking-a-wobble His wasteland home of corrosive breezes Rather the sordidness I see here; This indigence in my blood of ebony Than a life like little Yevgeny’s For a blond hair’d lad, once, I died For little Yevgeny, his summers Made of cyanide noons; the tender-marrowed prey Of mutant potatoes from that subterranean lair Of arsenic peat; ratsbane-tubers For Slavic mandibles; vampire-staple Chewing to chaff His toddler’s brain Tell me, how many penultimate Armaggedons – 8 Till the end of sunshine – stand At the Baltic’s backyard? How many little Yevgenys more For a lesson to learn? Better this melanin stigma of mine; This dark brand upon my whole self Than a lot Like little Yevgeny’s ECO-DEVILRY Into my slumber Slowly creeps a nightmare: eco-devilry Wherein these long-throats of krakens of men Swallow down to Armageddon The leafed things of this world Nightmare Wherein goodwill, like bread, Bakes into hard, crispy selfishness Down in the oven-days of this vexed sun That balances – at noontide upon my head – A zillion-degree-Celsius load of suffering What refuge then, O! poor polar pal, Would be that ice-roofed home of yours Stilted On quicksnow ? ...