Countryside journey

Today I was thinking about life as usual. I remembered my journey to Eden, when Virgo of Big Tree did me a favor. Since that time, I have felt that “mine” is no longer “mine”. I feel good saying "goodbye" and bad saying "let's combine." That was the Summer of the Lord; I took her hand and pressed it against my boiling cheek, as rosy as Bolshevik color, with angels flying around like tiny bees and little winged dragons or serpents. Waiting for the thunderstorm of the Great Lord, we were old and stupid, having played on an American football team in college since high school. Suddenly, The Virgo said to me: My real name is Virgil. I took this name in a past life. Now call me Legion, please shut up. Actually, I come myself every time when they call me. I was anywhere heroes were dying and whores were celebrating. Good was humiliating, and sausages were named Sons of the Lord. My road was precisely like that, and every time, standing there, I was smoking. There were ugly, bitter, like vinegar, "Don Tobacco” - old Italian cigarettes. So Rosy Crucifixion became Rose of Sharon. Then I paid her alimony and my last bills, for God's sake, and hanged myself on that World Tree and was happy. My ancient traveling to the Future began again. She could solve one of Hilbert's problems, but couldn't solve her own. Forgive me, Prince of Heaven. I was a goddam bootlegger, hanging around Cape Town port asking for a fag. Radiant sunset - pure like a baby's rosy ass - gleamed across me with rays. And Nobody was crying because these Sunny swords made my old wounds cry. They cried tears that looked like springs colored with wild berries on the surface of my buns.


And Behold as dead as an English king can be, I started to chant:

Think about us, my friend,
I would love you like a president
Loves his Kinder-country,
Like a farmer loves his barn
So bless me Father of Start-Ups
For loving Him, You are Almighty

I will love the pain in your bones
As if it were one of my sons.
Amid a desert of these dry eyes
Otherwise let my wounds play ping-pong
Game.
It’s a shame
To love a girl with a brain
Like Fibonacci curl,
In that barn of space and village global
I would give to you the birth of “you”
With tasteful lips smelling cosmic-blue
don't scroll the newsfeed with my prayers
Daddy !
With Thy Alzheimer's-moaning nerves.
Forgive me for that illness of the verse
It’s nothing else but your ancient curse
Upon me
Milord, Milady, Melody,
Don’t leave