LOCAL BOOTLICKERS

 ***

Here the people are eaten like mushrooms are drunk

like booze, burnt as the fat of the good and evil mixed

with a kind of pain at the command of a horde that devil

decided to encamp here they sent millions of Asian mutants

to turn the hearts’ hopes, soul’s beliefs into soapsuds – they sowed

the sign of the exterminator into the doggish wood, they covered

the dead white star with the sheets a population and a country

which the smoke stains with no destiny, with no target

only hordes, hordes, hordes and yellow jokes and a string

of soapsuds alike limpid stars were shining as a horde

over horde as some festoons with ashes coagulated

by earth’s crust are permeating into black woods

with the death giving its last breath in nose to the monstrous

horde that is laughing bigmouthed a peal of laughter resounding

as in a chimney – a peal of laughter full of soot and the black

star is rottenly laughing. Were they really people? The people

over here are eaten not for dying food but for the food remaining

on the endless corridors through which the barbarians are shuffling

their boots there is none who cares too much about these broken people

eaten as some scattered living stock who lost their law, the right

to be sacrificed, the right to be condemned for their belief –

they are looking powerless at the stars, they are looking into the history

appalled by grief and death and by empire wasted as lard on boots

they are licking the boots of the hordes and appear in all world’s

dictionaries and statistics: they are practicing non-sense into the flow

of centuries, they make trade with the stars, the only wares are the soapsuds

of the nomad hordes, their lives are too poor to be of any use

and the Balkan men are dying in their own pitch darkness.