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Discomfort Of The вурдалака, After The Fiction Of C. Krasnorogsky, 1
вурдалака, behold: Two adolescents, asleep in
each other's arms, beautiful in their slumber
after male to male intimacy; still naked
under the sheets with just their socks on,
their mutual love prevents the kind of
access you might have expected to place
your kiss upon them as your tribute to
them, and to consume their blood in large
gulps---an offered tribute to you; but not these
two (the protection is as constant as nights'
stars upon which you are neither permitted,
nor ever welcomed, to gaze or wish).
An excess of death now strides through this
ancient land. While the proletariat swings
factory hammers, and the peasants swing
sharp-bladed sickles, the thugs of the
Red Partiya Lenina ferociously swing
various instruments of death against all of the
Revolution's enemies: those whom Comrade
Lenin---in the ferocity of his vengeful
bloodthirst---despises, or fears, or envies.
These bodies, still warm when piled high, leak to
you the fluid of their suddenly expired lives,
their brutally butchered and gruesomely stolen lives.
You cannot disclose their secured location, for
who would believe you in whom no one believes,
especially Vlad the Imposter and Imposer of mass terror?
Marx and Engels have not allowed for your existence
(that old dialectical materialism of Lucretius, whom
you once knew and frightened nearly to his materialist death);
your existence need not allow for any will other than yours---the
ferocity of your ever unsated bloodthirst.
