                                                                book 3

 ramblings by Igal Koshevoy 


 ۱۱۱۱      ۱۱۱۱۱۱
                          ۱    ۱     ۱۱۱
               ۱ ۱ ۱۱۱۱
                              ۱  ۱۱۱   
       ۱۱   ۱۱۱۱۱۱

                                      &

      ۱۱۱          ۱۱۱۱۱
               ۱            ۱  ۱۱۱۱۱
            ۱          ۱۱۱۱۱۱
               ۱              ۱۱۱۱   
            ۱۱   ۱  ۱۱۱۱


 October 21, 1990    February 20, 1993 






            Rain: A Collection of Lost Phrases,
            Distorted Images and Crushed Ideas
            ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 It softly licks the windows,
 and patts the soggy, blackish ground,
 they always said Hell was warm,
                  they were wrong.

 A never ending falling,
           the tears,
                  the crying,
                     God must be sad.

 The good news is that the world isn't going to Hell.
      The bad news is that it is Hell.

 This world is confused,
               it's lost,
                      it's just so damn hopeless.

 People only see and hear what they want to.
 They refuse to learn anything new.

 They say enjoy! A big, bright billboard sign says,

 "Celebrate Life!"

 yet it sits on the back of an old trashed building,
 who's broken panes stare out painfully into
      the polluted waters,
 the rust deposits on the walls,
 lines and cracks cover the walls.

 It would be so easy to sleep forever.

                                         -Igal Koshevoy;  October 21st, 1990
                                                         CRAMPS  26:2 - 26:9
                                                          DARKNESS  3:2 -3:7



         The Hunters of the
           Midnight Aire
          ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 ...the dark mysterious wail of the night of the night train
 passes through the bleak, blackened abyss.
 The squeal of ancient battered steel,
 crunches against another slab of cold rolled steel,
      scythes through the post-midnight air.

 The darkened moon standing at attention across the blackened
       hills, the dark valleys, the sleeping suburbs.
 Lighting the sky around it, creating a small oasis of light,
       the rest is dark and cold.

 The air frigid against the frail blades of grass.
  The face (of the moon) scared and wrenched into utter distortion.

 Across the black shadows creep silently, quickly upon the
      night's wings.
 The colours now are so simple just black and white, just the
      way they wanted it. The dark shapes,
        the ever changing monstrosities,
 they fly through the skies.

 The carriages rumble silently, yet loudly, unheard, unseen,
      down into the bowels of the night.

 The night's things, yes things,
      grey and black throughout.
 Eat and bite viscously at the old rusted steel, it has given
       up to them long ago.

 And off they fly leaving it in its rusting peace,
      off again.

 They circle the skies above, searching for more victims,
      more targets, more souls to claim as theirs.
 The sparsely lit shadow before them shows a simple
      arrangement of boxes of dead wood, all together, for
           protection.
 Then with a beat of wings,
      a crane of neck,
        they descend to drag the paint off,
 warp the boards into grotesque shapes,
 to pull and nuzzle at the insides,
 to pull the curtains,
      to drag them behind.

 Their strength immense,
      their numbers great,
        their thoughts are fierce.
             The hunters of the midnight air scatter and
        regroup to attack more things,
      the mildew covered post,
 the rusting nails,
      the old battered cars,
        the dying weeds at the foothills.

 These old rails have seen so much,
      yet soon they will be gone,
        their thoughts and wisdom soon to perish,
             and new rails will come and soon be gone.

 Yet they'll never win.
      There is no way to beat
        the hunters of the midnight aire
             at what they just do best.


                                         -Igal Koshevoy;  October 1st, 1990
                                                        CRAMPS  19:1 - 20:4
                                                        DARKNESS  5:2 - 6:4



         Abbreviation of
           Simplicity
         ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 Give me five minutes, and I'll fill up this journal,
      give me an hour and I'll fill up a page.
 Give me forever, and I'll do absolutely nothing,
      give me this moment and I'll do everything.

 It would all be so simple that way,
                but it isn't.

 Someone always throws that curveball,
      that spit wad,
      that stray kick in the shin,
      to stop you and...

 If you're lucky,
          just lucky.

 You might just get out of life,
               alive.


                                         -Igal Koshevoy;  October 1st, 1990
                                                        CRAMPS  20:6 - 20:8
                                                        DARKNESS  4:2 - 4:6



                           FEAR
                           ~~~~
             Fear is the pain inside all minds,
                 Deep, burrowing, dark pain.
                Cold sweat across a forehead.
                 "Fear is the mind killer."

 It is the sound of the painful howling of the night train,
        cutting through the pitch-like aire.
      The tiny, deafening glitch of an unseen creature,
        breaking the silence of a desolate junk yard.
      It's the sound of a single, crying widow in the
        middle of a forest of bleached white crosses.
             The silent watching albatrosses.

 Fear stinks of a crumpled, drunken man laying still,
        slumped, stiff in an alley.
      It reeks of a freshly slaughtered lamb, blood
        gushing out, surrendering your nostrils.
      The dry, dusty smell of furniture breaking down into
        the elements in an abandoned house, its eyelids
                             nailed shut.

 Fear's bitter taste is that of expended gun powder, the
        taste eating away at your tongue.
      The bland taste of dry, desolate wasteland; silently
        sucking the breath from you.

     It sucks slowly and surely until it
                                        sucks the
                                                life
                                                   from
                                                     you.


                                            -Igal Koshevoy;  Feb. 23rd, 1991
                                                         DARKNESS  7:2 - 7:7



       St. Martin's Day
       ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
     Who is St. Martin?
       Who knows?
            Who cares?

     On February 14 we celebrate love,
       yet most of us get hate.

     The loved get more loved,
       the unloved, muck apon their feet.

     On St. Valentine's Day we all see how
       truly unloved we must be.
     Not a card, nor kiss apon
       your cheek.

     The 14th is a day to brood,
       yet the next day we
       smile and laugh
            in slight disgust
              into the faces
                of the
                      loved
                           ones.

     I guess February 29th would be a good day.
       Once every 4 years to remember
       all the ones who weren't loved.

     Still we think of them rarely and very
       far apart, just love among the
              Cannibals,

            So simple,
                      and so just.


                                             -Igal Koshevoy;  Feb. 23, 1991
                                                        DARKNESS  4:2 - 4:8



       Status Quo
       ~~~~~~~~~~
     When it all ends, it's all the same.
       Lack of prejudice,
     Non-existence of difference.

     It's all the same.
     The same stone above thy head,
            government issue,
            standard,
            bench mark grade.

     All races flow into one river.
       They are all just paints.
            White, with red,
            and yellow, and black,

     Mixing, swirling, bubbling,
     the darkish muck,
       the result of the
            blood shed.

     As the curtain falls,
       the lights stay dim.

     When death comes,
       it never asks for

       names, ages,
       races, religions, or
       families.

     When it all ends, its all the same,
     The same darkness we follow,
     The same stone,
              a burden upon
                      the head.


                                           -Igal Koshevoy;  Feb. 23rd, 1991
                                                        DARKNESS  2:2 - 2:9



                          PHEONIX-WHORE
                          ~~~~~~~~~~~~~
      Ah yes. My perfect LITTLE WORLD.
            so clean, orderly, and sterile.
                  this little world , so perfect,
                        hermetically sealed by my own disillusions.

      All, just a little perfect jigsaw puzzle.
            pieces, all fit into their places perfectly....
                  THEN THE WIND BLEW.
                        damn, where did all those pieces go to.
                              falling to pieces.

      A retreat, final?
            back up the hill.
                  against the wall.
                        back inside,
                              DEEP inside
                                    so deep, so deep
                                          away from prying
                                                eyes and fingers

      The PHEONIX,
            The soul-PHEONIX is
                  MINE.
           As the world burns around me,
                  I turn my own world to ashes.
                        re-build. BURN. re-build. BURN. re-build. BURN....
                              order to chaos!? HOWTHEFUCK!?
           ... For tis the all cleansing flame inside I seek.
                        DEEP inside.

      The flame within, a whore.
            The illusions/disillusions
                  battling for
                        pimpmanship.
                             deciding how the
                                    whore shall give birth
                                          to the new world,
                                                AND SHE CONSUMES IT.

      The illusions disinform.
             for the flame isn't clean,
                   it is filled with the
                         greatest concentration.
                               the thick rich solution
                                     of lies.
                                           MISSINFORMATION.
                                    ...for the whore isn't clean
                               ...encrusted,
                          befouled.
                    disgraced.
              dishonored.

      And the whore
            keeps giving birth,
                  producing.
                        And she EATS
                              her children
                                    for they aren't (YET?)
                                           kleansed.


                                           -Igal Koshevoy;  Feb. 13th, 1991
                                             GATHERED SORROWS  97:1 - 98:11



                             "POST-MORTUM...
                             METAMORPHASES."

         The pre-MORTUM clay seeks verticle expansion, growth...
         ...as the clay is molded, into a more finalizing shape,
         it BREAKS-DOWN, LOSS-OF-EXPANSION, REGRESSION.
                                            REVERSAL.
                                            DE-GENERATION.

         Athropy of all knowledge, swapped for the random,
              SpAraAtIc use of their NEW flesh-toy.
                    down hill
                             rolling.
                                    fast.
                                   DAMN FAST.

         And so the sheep conjeal, come together, for the SLAUGHTER,
              they don't realize it. Tough shit Mr. Sheep.
                             you are expendable.
                        there are hundreds more, free and fresh.
                                        just like you.

         The sheep, blinded, by the fuzzy chemical storm,
                  WANDER/BLUNDER.
              Poking their swollen organ, thrusting it
                  into the clay. Fake smiles plaster -- their faces.
                       (tis acceptable, why?)

         Confusion replaced by orgasm.
              Rejection -- to violence.
                   Blood, the sheep seek.
                        NEW, FRESH BLOOD -- virgin lambs to slaughter

         The souls of the sheep -- replaced -- by ovens
                        MORTUARY -- CREMATORIUM
              And the ovens burn bright, NIGHT and day.
                   "Exposure to radiation," melting, loss, re-birth.
                                  METAMORPHASES.

         The fleeing cowards (or are they?) IRRADIATED.
              MELTED, LOST INNER RE-BIRTH: METAMORPHASES.

         And the yellow bellied cowards go to
              the blinding flames, through the ovens -- MELTED.

         Past the ovens, LOST.
                     Crystalization of their souls, RE-BIRTH.

              Out of the burning oven, (sizzling)
              AND... thrown into the pitch black vacuum,
                             SCREAMING silently.

                        POST-MORTUM...
                        METAMORPHASES.


                                           -Igal Koshevoy;  Feb. 13th, 1991
                                               GATHERED SORROWS 93:5 - 96:8



            ALARM CLOCK
            ~~~~~~~~~~~
            ...each night we go upon an
                unpleasant journey,
                    to strange, unfamiliar,
                        unhospitable
                            lands.

            No weapons, no fists, nothing can save us
                from ourselves,
                    our imagination.

            We take nothing (when we go),
                can't (damnit).

            Can't bring protection.
                can't bring help.
                    the reinforcements,
                        they never
                            come.

            Yet we plunge (daily) into the great blackened abyss.

                Our only savior, our lifeline,
                    our one-way (sudden) ticket home:
                        (and we pray for its safety and our)
                            an alarm clock.


                                                   -Igal Koshevoy;
                                                    June 12, 1991;
                                                    GATHERED SORROWS 8:5



                    RIVER
                    ~~~~~
                    plunging into the black
                        cold icy river

                    the water thick with mud strips you
                        beyond the bones and flesh
                            to the soul
                                clean to the truth


                                                   -Igal Koshevoy;
                                                    June 25, 1991;
                                                    GATHERED SORROWS 8:1



                fucking hell
                ~~~~~~~~~~~~
 hell is for cowards.
      that is what i am.
           nothing but a
                fucking coward.

 i am too afraid to live
 i am too afraid to die.

 i am not human, if i was,
 i wouldn't have these problems.
 i have a problem - for i am not.

 the tears shatter into the night.
      all gone.  all fucking gone.

 why do i live?  i serve no
 purpose.  never have, never will.

 if i die tonight maybe all the sufferage
      will end.  please end.  everything end.

           please.

 if i live, then everything, the pain and
      ragged suffering will go on.  stop, please.

 nothing will change.  only my death.  another plaque.
      maybe, but probably not.  just another coward.  cowards need
           no crown. they are not worthy of one.

 the end i see, a blazing, bright tunnel, into
      oblivion.  please, is there no other way?  why?

 why?  why?  why?  why?  why?  why?  why?  damn it.

 life, just sufferage, pain, sufferage why drag on?
 why the fuck make it last any longer?  no reason at all.
 none at all.

 living i just pimp my self to others...

 no one wants me.  i am not needed.
 hell, i wish someone would please use me.
 i'd feel important at least.

      "shit is shit
           we are shit.
                fuck you all - shut up."

 get outta my mind.  get outta my mind and leave me
   alone.  all alone.  alone i am.  and yet i am not.
   help me, i am lost.  i am confused.  i wish i was wrong.
   i wish.  i wished so much in my short (bleak)
   lifetime.  never.  never.  never did it ever come true.
   if nothing comes true, why the hell should i live?

 my mental sanity is a thin, oh so thin, gasoline
   soaked string.  the fire burns and stops.
   now it is burning.  oh is it burning.

   it hurts.  the burn.  the fire is warm and
   comforting.  death welcomes me.  come in, please.

      DIE BASTARDS!


                                             -Igal Koshevoy;  March 29, 1992
                                            GATHERED SORROWS  116:2 - 118:10



               THE COMING OF THE FENCES
               ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 obscene liquid gushing out
 corrosion incarnated into modernization.

 all engulfing
 all oppressing, sides swallowed.
      the main arteries and veins - now just cement tunnels

 the coming of the ungreat flood
 nears profanely, home.
      the routes - now just cement tunnels

 poison light beflooding
 poison grey tracts.
      our hallways and corridors - now just cement tunnels

 a spreading disease
 all gone, now it inside us
      our capillaries - now just cement tunnels

 silently, steadily
 wasting ourselves into oblivion.
      our minds - now just cement tunnels

 blind self executions
 continue methodically,
 mechanically .......... AAAHHRRRRGGGGHHhhhhhh ... !!!
      our hearts - now just cement tunnels


                                        -Igal Koshevoy;  September 18, 1992
                                            "The Book Of Machineries"  31:2



                NAME THAT WAR
                =============

 There is a war where
       they take no prisoners;
       the casualties pile mercilessly up high;
       "Insanity is just another word for survival;
        and Death is the easy way out;"
       you always sleep with the enemy;
       the stakes are too high,
        too damn high;
       the ovens burn night and night;
       the souls are crematories;
       the minds are ovens;
       love is another four letter word;
       feelings kill;
       vision blinds;
       knowledge stupefies;
       everyone loses;
       no one wins;
       no one gets out alive;
       "Fear is the mind killer;"

 There is a war where
       "Blood flows apon the plains in tides;"
       pain has no meaning;
       we all want MORE;
       bullets are the least of your worries;
       there is no such thing as a non-combatant,
        no civilians;
       it's for the love of God;
       suicide is an excuse for wimps;
       "pity" is a sign of weakness;
       blood is the only currency;
       you can't find no understanding;
       "mercy" is a disease to be weeded out with a chainsaw;
       madness is rampant;
       lunacy is abound;
       the only thing given is pain;
       "Hero" is not a word in anyones' vocabulary;
       everything is more than just a pain in the neck;
       it's in the name of humanity;
       everything is "so hard to come by,
                           and so much harder to hold;"

 There is a war where
       Hell is the only destination;
       knives can only inflict meager flesh wounds;
       "I need all the love that I can get;"
       "I need all the love that I can't get to;"
       it's on the edge of insanity;
       everyone is trapped, inside;
       each road is a Highway of Death,
        and all roads lead down - straight down;
       everyone's "comfortably numb;"
       the world is cold,
        "I'd buy another if it wasn't for the money;"
       everyone is "Another black hole in the killing zone,
        a little more mad in the methedrome."

 There is a war where
       "...all you've got to do is follow;"
       the old are crated up and shipped in coffins too early;
       the young are decimated, and then thrown into the fire;
       everyone is a soldier, warrior, general,
        and most important, a kamikaze;
       no one is spared;
       "Pain is the game;"
       murder is survival;
       killing is existence;
       all are spies;
       "First and last and always, till the end of time;"
       every street is Detonation Blvd.;
       "it goes on and on and on ... and on ...."
       everyone is a stranger passing through an inhospitable town;

 There is a war where
       Hell is a way of life,
        and peace is a drunken daydream;
       "reality" is a word you can only be used in quotes;
       The Horsemen ride a fortnight each night;
       "Hell sets you free;"
       agony and defeat are a way of life;
       "glory" is nothing more than five meaningless characters;
       wish turns to sadness;
       the word "guilt" isn't in the dictionary,
        because what's the use for a word for something that never departs;
       everyone just steps aside;
       Sorrow is a dead monkey on your back;
       Killing is the Business;
       "It all seems funny, kinda like a dream - so sad, so sad;"
       Fear is a death sentence of the meek;
       the sweet untimely whore, takes me home;
       "honor" is an atrocity;
       everyone is sick;
       we are all evil;
       all are in a state of COMA;
       the bells toll for no one;
       they have been fighting for over five million years;
       "Time is having its way with you;"

 Here is a war where
       we're all right next door to Hell;
       "You can sell one another for 15 cents,
        well, buy my mother - that's common sense!"
       the acrid, metal rain of shrapnel falls night in, night out;
       there is pain, yet no gain;
       lifejackets are only wishful thinking;
       they all burn alive;
       it's the ultimate war of attrition;
       cries of the wounded are only silenced with gunfire;
       Denial is a necessity,
        it's not just a state of mind anymore....


                "What the fuck is the name of this war!?
                "What is this age-old, ancient curse, this pestilence!?
                "HUH!?"

 Well, I don't know,
              but what I do know is
                        that some bastard had the nerve to call it
                                                                "life."


                                       -Igal Koshevoy;  December 13th, 1992
                                                 "The Book Of Mechanix" 1:1
                                       
 Coincidentally enough, December 13th is also my birthday.



                  EVERMIND
                  ~~~~~~~~
 "Be mindful," said they, "and respect all others"
     and I obeyed.
 "Be kind and generous," said they
     and I obeyed.
 "Love your neighbors," said they, "and love your world, your mother."
     and I obeyed.

 And then they lied to me, and disgraced me -
     but I stayed with my morals.
 And then they stole from me, and spat upon me -
     but I stood firm in the hail.
 And then they despised me, and wrecked our world -
     but I tightened my belt, and labored on.
 And it went on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on...
     but I took actions and precautions:
     and burned out my eyes, cut away my ears, and ripped away my nose -
     so I couldn't see them, hear them, nor smell them;
      so all I could feel was pain.
 Yet I still pained
     and pulled out my nerves, like pianowire - so I could not feel.
     and so I sawed off my limbs - so I could not touch.
     and hacked away my other limb - so I would not sin.
     and I chopped and cut, incised and sawed
     diligently into my forever night.
 And I bled and bled.
     so, in a desperate measure:
     I cut away my heart - and foolishly thought that
     one day I could bleed no more.

     and then I lost my mind - cause there was nothing left of me.
        It's a sort of a holistic mousetrap,
        connected to a atomic bomb.
        Not too easy to set one off, but takes years of trying.
        But when one blows - nothing changes,
        not even a puff of fluffy, white smoke blows over the battlefield.

 Spake the rodent, "Evermore, evermore...."


                                          -Igal Koshevoy; December 29, 1992
                                                         MECHANIX 4:6 - 5:2



 Nyd
 ~~~
 "The more things change, the more they stay the same."
 With bright, cheerful eyes we will look apon  this  world
 this   morn.    Awaiting   for   all   the  goals  to  be
 accomplished; all our prayers  to  be answered; For hope,
 peace, friendship and love to  spread  like  a  flood  of
 champaign  across  the  lands, the plains, the mountains,
 valleys, and cities of this world.  We smilingly remember
 all the promising toasts by imaginative people - saying a
 "A new age is ushered  in, a prosperous and gleeful one."
 And drunkenly we return to our beds and sleep.

                    when we awake and get up with high hopes, we look around.
                    disappointed we are, when we see that nothing has changed
                    except for one meaningless digit and another  wrinkle  on
                    our  faces.   war  rages  across  continents  - murdering
                    millions just because they were there.  disease,  hunger,
                    corruption  and shame run rampant through the capillaries
                    of each land.  and Mother Nature takes her toll in lives.
                    In the end, it's  all  the  same:
                            "Nothing changes on New Year's Day."


                                                   -Igal Koshevoy;
                                                    January 1, 1993;
                                                    SUFFERAGE 20:1



           ELLA FUE Y ELLA FUE...    (SHE WAS AND SHE WENT....)
           ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 I saw her as a shining lighthouse beacon, glorious hope.
      A warm, white, fuzzy-soft spell she cast up on me,
      but went through with it not.

 She was an angel,
     I offered her wings to take us to heaven.
     She frowned, and walked the other fork in the road,
     the low road.

 Oh, she could have had it all, I could have had everything.
 So much hope, such talents, what wonderful endowments she had:
       all she had to do was use them.

 I preached my speeches, held my signs, shouted, picketed, begged, pleaded,
     spoke of morality, wisdom, kindness; and love.

          But she would have no part in any of that.
          She wasn't interested.

 She walked away; walked past with a look of scared, concerned confusion
     upon her lovely face.
     I was so much,
              yet I could not give her the satisfaction she wanted.
       She simply wanted a satisfaction,
            a kind of love I couldn't and wouldn't give her.
                  I loved her, but could not stand her wicked ways.
                     And she wouldn't accept my love, nor me.

 So she took that low road.  Passed through so many back seats; so many
 dreary halls; musty rooms; took so many in - took so much pain.
        She loved it ... hated it ...
           and I hated it so much ... but I loved her.

 Poor girl gave so much of herself, got nothing back.
 They took what they pleased of her, wadded her up, and chucked her.
 I tried so hard to heal her pains, cure the hurts, tried to take her away.
   But as soon as she healed, she stubbornly shut her eyes, and ran back -
   to the pain, as fast as her long legs could take her.

 Maybe I did not shout loud enough  *  Maybe she couldn't hear me
                           Maybe she wouldn't hear me.
                           Maybe she never got my message.
                           Maybe she didn't understand.
                           Maybe it was because she did.

 I was but a crustacean trying to steer a cruise ship off course,
      to avoid the iceberg.
        To save her from a certain doom.

 So many ships sink in these seas, such a damn, silly shame - but
 it happens, and will happen, and happen again.     "Que sera, sera"
  I knew that,
    but that couldn't stop trying to chase you down and trying to rescue you.

    You might have hated me, I don't know.
    You might have liked me, I don't know.
        I never did find out,
        because when next I found you,
           you were not.

 I couldn't, despite my efforts, put together the pieces of a broken,
       shattered, sunken ship while drowning in my tears.

 I cried - I had been able to do anything by my will power.
       But some pieces can't be glued back together.
            Broken bones don't always heal.
               Some things you just can't fix.
                  There are some people you couldn't help,
                     no matter how hard you try.
                          And some simply never made it back.


                                            Igal Koshevoy; January 15, 1993
                                                               MECHANIX 9:2



           A TOUCH OF PAIN
           ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 Once I knew a Girl - who had a touch of death.
 Even though I know better - I'd swear She was death herself.
 Her beauty was cold, hard, intricate, precise, perfect, carved of cool ivory
      like a skeleton.

 Just Her gaze would freeze any man - dead;
      She grabbed attention by its reigns and wouldn't let go.
      Such a beauty, that hearts stop beating in her presence,
      even lungs would not inhale, all eyelids fastened open - staring
        in terror, into terror.
      ...and Her eyes - ice cold blue, a soul-less pit of frigid Hell;
      Like looking into the depths of a bottomless, mountain lake
        filled with acid.

 Oh, She was evil - a murderess of souls and mortals.
      The Demoness would gaze upon Her hypnotized subjects and grin,
        for She knew her powers.
      And, Her captive audience would die for Her without a second though,
        for a moment under Her black wings.
      All I want - all I crave.

 She would come down, with purposey
     and take the mesmerized mice away in Her talons.
     And the mice would shudder; and pray, pleading to be the next victim.

 The sky darkens, a thunderous, rhythmic beating of batlike wings is heard
     above the sporadic flashes of lighting, and the pyres.
 From the darkness above, from the darkness below - comes She.
 I see Her dark form ... all beauty ... all evil ... all mine.
 And She comes down to me....

 Decent into eternity, She takes me.
        In the pitch black, vacuum emptiness - I know I'm done for.
 I feel those eyes pierce me, and Her talons too.
 She cuts me to pieces, but I give not a damn.

 I come, I go, but She remains.

          * * *

 And the mud on Her boots, dirt from the graveyards.    ...for She was the:
 Giver Of Passage To The Meek - Liberator Of Corpses, from their inner ill.


                                           -Igal Koshevoy; January 19, 1993
                                                              MECHANIX 10:5



                YE OL' STAGE
                ~~~~~~~~~~~~
 I stand silent on the stage and stare outwards,
 across the empty seats.  Not a soul in sight,
 but plenty of people walk past, behind the wall.
 A wall of glass - for I am but a department store
 maniquine to them.  I perform my acts, my tricks,
 my dramas, my feats - without a sound
 of recognition from my dead audience.

 It is cold outside, and snowing lightly.  The crowds
 bustle quickly back and forth past my vantage point.
 Sometimes, if I am lucky, someone glances at me; but
 this is most very uncommon.

 What is this!?  Has someone noticed me?  A small
 annoying little brat looks inside my glass prison
 with a grin apon his face.  "Hey you, under the glass!"
 He yells to me.  "Yes kind sire, you speak to me?"
 I reply.  "Yeah - you suck!"  Says he and bounds
 off laughing.  Amusing little fellow.  Nice chap,
 he'll go far in this world.

 "Damn it!"  Think I, "Why couldn't they keep the stupid
 performing poodles, or that one guy in chains, or the
 man that decapitated others with glee.  Why must I
 hold down the stage?  Howcome?"

      "For the whole world is a stage."

 Mechanically I resume my unjoyous duties.
 My labors continue unnoticed, unheard, unseen;
 eventhough I stand before a cast of thousands,
            yet I can't turn off the lights.

 I stand alone on my stage,
 I perform for my self,
 I am by my self,
 I am alone.

 Alas it is cold inside and snowing lightly.
 I can feel the sheets of dry, lifeless snow
 collecting inside me....

 One day I too will give up, in time even my little
   freak show will collapse,  implode under its own
                                          emptyness.


                                           -Igal Koshevoy;  January 29, 1993
                                                               MECHANIX  5:4



           DEATH SONG II
           ~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 i am the wild-toothed rider
 of the fresh pine wood coffin
 that rides the nightmarish tidal wave of hate!
 ENGULF!  ENGULF!  ENGULF!

 'ah just gonna rip 'em apart,
 limb to limb, organ to organ!
 mow 'em down with a wall of glittering steel,
 LET'S GO SEVER SOME HEADS!

 i'm the child of the flames.
   gonna find that Dream Child
   n' toast a drink of battery acid for 'er health.
 i'm a bat out of hell.
   find the damned Child,
   and pierce 'er throat
   suck all the reeking goodness out
   and spit back the seeds.
 i'm the pain in this world.
   jus' gonna hum a tune,
   strike up a song,
   pull up a keg of blood,
   for the night is young and long!

 come 'ahn DOWN, ye'r neXT!
 i am the incinerator,
 i am doom!
 hell on wheelZ,
 pain in a wheelbarrel,
 death on a stick!

 simpl'y gonna do ya' all,
 make no damn diffRence ta' me!
 scream all you want, i'll make
 PLENTY more.
 can't get away,
 i'm on you heels,
 on your intestines,
 on ye'!

 come on down and
 take my bony hand
 and with leering skulls dance
 through the flames
 of our burning pasts.
 dance to the new rhythm
 set by the beat of a meltdown reactor core.
 dancin' thru da' flameZ - we go hand in hand!

 yeah, 'ah gotta head in my freezer
 ya' see.
 was an ol' luv o' mine: WAS, ya' see!
 so damn, maybe she never smiles - such'a damn shame
 but she don't bitch, don't gripe, don't whine.
 jus'a handful of somethin' clean
 to gnaw the hours away.

 and so U'll go,
 'ah smile as
 i gleefully grasp
 my rusted fork.
 jus' gonna take from you,
 what i never had.
 gonna take it
 ALL from you:
 everybit
 everypiece
 everydrop
 everypart.
 'n gonna shove't 'en ma meat locker
 for a RRRrrrrrainy day!

 i am your creation,
 you made me what i am.
 i am what you tossed out with the trash.
 i am the one you unceremoniously flushed down the john.

 now i'm back
 with a vengeance,
 with a plan,
 with a fork!

 ain't nuttin' gonna stop me this time.
 all those times past,
 stopped by silly
 morals
 beliefs
 ideas
 gods
 explanations
 contemplations
 expirations
 expectations
 condemnations
 justifications.
 now eit's jus' decadence!

 'ah know it all,
 ultraomnipotent!
 'ah know ye'r best kept secrets,
 ye'r best told lies
   told with forked tongue.
 but i've put ye'r testicles to the grindstone,
 and i'm beatin' 'em as my war drum!
 i've cut through the shit with a chainsaw.
 it's all done now!

 Gonna stuff my pain
 down the throat of a long dead corpse
 gonna slay those god-damned souls!

 i can see you through
 like the frail polythene ghosts
 fluttering and dropping away in
 the acid rain.
 i know who you are.
 'ah can see your selfish selfs,
 your beheaded saints,
 your corrugated idols,
 your burnished shrines,
 that festered flesh,
 the bleeding hearts,
 the rotten minds,
 and the inside - much worse.
   and most of all,
   i can see the emptYness that you are.

 and i'm gonna kut it all out
 with my surgical chainsaw
 till the blood flows upon the planes in tides,
 the day, the day ... shall come.
 and we shall be ONE.
 twisted, pained flesh and my glorious doom.
 Cuz
 blind devotion to my cause,
 cause nuttin's gonna change my mind,
   no matter, evermore!

                                         -Igal Koshevoy; February 8th, 1993
                                         METALLIFEROUS DECADENCE (RUST) 1:3



                LOST BOW OF PARADISE
                ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 I wasn't even expecting her at all,
 but when I looked up - she was there.

 Our eyes connected and stared recursively into empty wells.

 I knew what she was feeling inside,
 she was sad,
 lonely,
 scared,
 frightened,
 unloved,
 uncared for,
 and she knew that the most anyone cared about her, was for her body.

 That we can relate to, we both need someone.
 A person cannot look so desolate,
 so cold and scared,
 and so empty
 if they have that one "block of completion."

 Neither of us said anything,
 I just pushed open the door for her -
   she walked in,
       I walked out.

 We passed as strangers with caged hearts,
 both wanting,
 needing,
 but still lost.

 Two lost souls in Paradise,
 and it only takes one arrow to take out two birds.

 Now where the Hell is the bow!?


                                           -Igal Koshevoy; February 10, 1993
                                          METALLIFEROUS DECADENCE (RUST) 3:8

                                       

                     STILL EMPTY
                     ~~~~~~~~~~~
 I watched Her pass by with such hunger, and lust, because She looked
 perfect.  A perfect stride, perfect stance, posture and all.  The skirt was
 nice and high, exposing Her gorgeous legs to the world.  The straps on the
 backpack showed off Her chest in a better way than I ever remember - She has
 one Hell of a pair on that body of Hers.  Her hair, perfectly combed and tied
 into a pony tail - perfect, not a hair out of place, or of wrong length, or
 split: just perfect, damned perfect.

 But Her heart, was not at peace - I could tell by the look on Her face.  The
 face I've spent so long, so hard, trying to memorize every feature of - was
 sad.  She was empty inside, She knew it very well.

 We try to keep ourselves from confronting these sad truths by ignoring them,
 surrounding ourselves with associates, with (in)sanity checks; just little
 ways to keep from feeling the hurt that never really leaves, that cramp,
 those aching hearts, those tortured minds.

 That's why She does what She does - She has to.  I surround myself with my
 paper, She lets them fondle and abuse Her.  She knows that they don't give a
 damn about Her, and never EVER will - but that doesn't matter at all.  For
 She lives in the spotlight, in the hot flames.  She lives the dream, and
 must reinforce it by pretending that the pain isn't there.  Dancing away the
 life, on a 'runway' of broken glass...

 We hide it from those we associate with, but otherwise, we are alone - even
 when surrounded by people.  And being unrelated, we must both be capable of
 seeing the pain that wrecks our insides and turns them inside out.  I would
 have to imagine that those that I don't have to keep my damned, lovely facade
 up for, can see right through me.  They should be able to see, because I
 don't put up the blinds, nor armor for them.

 I guess...
    Sometimes you just gotta be alone,
      sometimes you must have someone -
                     and mysteriously,
              sometimes you need both;
 and other times you simply want more.


                                          -Igal Koshevoy; February 10, 1993
                                         METALLIFEROUS DECADENCE (RUST) 4:1



 PRERAMBLE
 -------------
 If this helps you  understand  the  following  song-poems  -  good.  I am not
 talking of killing off any people, nor anything that's alive.  It's  ideas  I
 would  like to kill off - ideas that plauge those rotten minds.  Sometimes it
 almost seems like the only way: is to destroy the container of the pain - but
 that is wrong.  And the minds that  feed  off those ideas are what hurt us so
 much....  Sometimes I think that I must be completely crazy, because everyone
 else is doing it, and craziness is proportional: it is the minority  that  is
 insane  and  the  majority  that  is "normal." I am a murderer because I step
 aside, because I have never been able to stop the brutal mental executioners.
 That is my true crime, my guilt.   That  is  the loneliness - for so few ever
 realize this through their stumblings through the mine-field  of  life,  just
 because  they  see  the  flowering  mirage  in  (what  they  perceive as) the
 distance.

             WAY-A-WAY, AWAY
             ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 I am crazy.
 I am great,
 never thought I'd be a heavy weight -
 bobbing in the water like some sort of bait,
 and I'm waiting...

 Look around.
 Gonna split my skin,
 slither out into the midnight dream -
 sink my fangs of pain into the sleeper's skin,
 and I'm waiting:
 come on and show me the way - the way, the way.

 Drink the blood.
 Spit it out,
 gotta keep down my murderer of love -
 need the energy of their life; wanna take it,
 cause I'm aching - itching for the way - the way, the way.
 Gotta slay 'em all, right away - way, for the way!

      ~ ~ ~
 I only need comfort,
 I only need some hope,
 but seriously folks, it's just a joke,
 might as well shut my beak, you never listen to the thoughts I speak.

 My only hope,
 is that you'll stay,
 but they all just keep on a walkin' away.
 ... just keep on a walking away, walking away, walking away.
 ... and just keep on a running away, running away, away.

 This disease ain't terminal,
 but no one would ever stay,
 come on, it's not that tough,
 ... please stay, stay, stay!

 But they all just kept on a running away, away, away!


                                        -Igal Koshevoy; February 13th, 1993
                                        METALLIFEROUS DECADENCE (RUST)  8:5

                                       

          TUNNELS II
          ~~~~~~~~~~
 I'm just one stupid bastard,
 born without a heart.
 I breed my disaster - from my bleeding heart.
 Just searching for heaven, that I will NEVER find,
 my pain is the answer and death is my life.
    And it don't matter which way the shit flies, I don't know the way.
    It don't matter what way the blood spills, I try not to give a damn -
    No no, oh no, no no!

 I'm one crazy bastard,
 not living out my dream.
 Watch them die, for some sick fool's joyous glee.
 Searching for forgiveness, in the middle of a slaughterhouse,
 what is the answer and why is my life?
    And it don't matter which way the stream flows - I can't swim anyway.
    It don't matter where the hurricane is, cause it's inside my heart -
    Yeah yeah, yeah, oh yeah!

 And I'm just another killer, another Son-O'-Sam!
 Too many people pissed on me - ain't no happy chipmunk now.
 Yeah, I'm a man that utterly SANE - just another crazy preach-er.
 Simply torn up inside,
 Blindness is my eye!
 Vacuum of the souls
 shall drain away us fools.
 Into a dark red mass,
 with consistency of molasses!
 I'm lost,
 I'm lost,
 I'm lost,
 I'm alone.

 Just gonna spend my life screamin'
      down my darkened tunnel of strife.


                                        -Igal Koshevoy; February 13th, 1993
                                        METALLIFEROUS DECADENCE (RUST)  9:2

 "No corridori cantzaiutza stenkio, y tunneli vidut na svet."
 (But the corridors end at walls, and the tunnels lead to the light) -Visotski

 "I thank the Creator for making the darkness,
  for by which, we can better see the light."  -JS & CS



           /
 LA DIA DEL CORAZON NEGRO, 1993    (the day of the black heart, '93)
 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 Once in a while,
 you want someone so bad,
 you cry.

 Sometimes it hurts so much inside,
 and all you can do is cry.

 But they always said,
 that nothing is sillier
 than praying for love.

 Take it from me folks,
 never works, never will in the years * to come.

 And the hunger,
 the unquenched thirst
 can be silenced,
 but not the pain;
 that always stays -
 inside your soul.

 And all I can do,
 is cry - for the emptiness around...

 "Some times you can be holding someone in your arms,
  and still be miles apart inside...."

 Oh, yeah - what a waste,
 what a damned silly waste
 of our hearts.
 Never meant * to be * broken - like they are.

 Just going round,
 spewing out our retribution
 for the pain
 for the hurt
 that always stays.
 We are, the killers, the cruel * cannibals
 killing virtues,
 vanquishing morals,
 pound our heads * against * the walls
                     * till * the blood * mixes * with the dust...


                                        -Igal Koshevoy; February 14th, 1993
                                       METALLIFEROUS DECADENCE (RUST)  10:1



 Dedicated to the crazy war and the people of Yugoslavia - or parts thereof.
                                       

                     BLENDERLIFE
                     ~~~~~~~~~~~
                     Rhesus Pieces.
                     Monkey Pieces,
                     In a blender.

                     Peoples are just monkeys
                     (In a blender)
                     that are not civilized.

                     People Pieces
                     spinning madly
                     in their little
                     blood stained world.

                     Such sad eyes
                     stare from inside the blender.

                     Silly Monkeys,
                     Silly Peoples,
                     In a blender
                     (they) set to high.


                                         Igal Koshevoy; February 19th, 1993
                                        METALLIFEROUS DECADENCE (RUST) 12:5



      DA' CITY
      ~~~~~~~~
 Git'in' tired of the home town,
 gotta try to do sumptin' wit' ma' life.
 Time hath come * to break the memories,
 comes the time * to break wit' the past.

 Gotta, move to the city.
 To the city where the blood flows red.

 In the city, there's a sense of adventure -
 see, controlled killing's just a game.
 There 'ey've got them fools * with all the money,
 and them wise guys * jus' prophets in a cardboard box.

 Jus' a gettin' sick of the boring home life,
 jus' a child - here at home.
 I'm a man, with nothin',
 that's trying to take the world by storm.

 Sur' the city got its problems,
 but Hell I'm use' to pain.
 I'm just sick of walkin' in circles,
 wanna bigger runnin' track.

 Then I've gotta run with them thoroughbred horses,
 and all those millions of rats.
 Need to run in one big circle,
 jus' bittin' someone elses ass.

 Gotta, move to the city.
 To the city where they play 'em all for chumps.

 Simply need my own room.
 So, it's full of cockroaches
 but at least there's a bed.
 And maybe sometimes * it won't be empty at night.

 Oh, I jus' wanna try my own hand,
 at this crazy little game.
 Need to take that damned chance,
 even if I know it's wrong.

 Yeah, I know the city will eat me,
 digest and spit me out.
 Maybe it will also kill me,
 but, life's * one damned bitch.

 I guess I've stopped bleedin'
 time has come to cut the scab.
 Pain has come * to the city.
 Pain has come, with my name.

 Gotta, move to the city.
 Move to the city - where I'm gonna die.

 Damned shame and pity -
 but that's a fact:
 I'm sick n' tired of thrashing in this coffin,
 I need a much bigger one!

 Gotta move to the city,
 where the all sufferin' ain't pretty,
 to the city and that's the end o' 'dat.
 Can't stand these doldrums - I need newer, bigger ones!

 Child's gonna get killed by the city,
 and maybe it'll also kill the man.


                                         -Igal Koshevoy; February 20th, 1993
                                               METALLIFEROUS DECADENCE  13:1
                                       
 Credit goes to GNR for the music to this song.



                         THESE HILLS
                         ~~~~~~~~~~~
                 The warm wind blows,
                    a dry and dusty ancient scent to it.

                 Small grains
                    bombard your skin,
                       softly,
                          kindly,
                             gently.

                 I stand on the hills,
                    those same hills
                       that so many nameless souls
                          stood on before.
                       Looking onto the desolate landscape.

                 Most people
                    would just see the brown-grayish hills,
                       rolling into eternity -
                          as far as the eye could see
                             into the sandstorm
                                in the distance.

                 But the few see it for what it really is:
                    ancient life,
                       flowing
                          lazily along.

                 The smooth hills hold so much,
                    in their silent grainy solitude.

                 They are naked grey sand.
                    Soft,
                       hot
                          sand
                             that you can hold in your hand
                                      and feel the heat,
                                            the warmth.

                 Grind it around
                    till it's dusty residue collects
                       under your fingernails.
                 Then slowly let it go,
                    watch it
                       slowly,
                          noiselessly
                             settle back
                                to its resting place -
                             not to be disturbed
                          for another few million
                       years.

                 A small bug-eyed and colorless lizard
                    scuttles from a small clump
                       of thin wispy grass to another.
                 Quietly, it disappears again,
                    into the hills,
                       the hills,
                          the hills....

                 I breath in the essence,
                    the warmth of the aire.

                 One single word unfurls in my mind,
                    the word is
                      "home."


                                          -Igal Koshevoy; February 16, 1993
                                           SOCIOPATHS: Ju.3b



               METAL PILLBOXES
               ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
        Hundreds and thousands of these little metal pillboxes,
           lined up obediently -
               shining in the sun.

        An almost deafening roar of
           hundreds of cylinders,
               spinning camshafts
                   merge into a wall of sound -
                       a wall of pure noise.

        Inside each little metal chrysalis
           a pupa sits
               waiting to resume its life.

        Despite the noises of
           millions of watts of music
               being pumped into the adjacent atmosphere -
                   it is quiet.
                       Not a human sound any where,
                            for this is the world of the machines
                                 and their trapped occupants
                                      waiting desperately be let loose
                                          from their portable iron-tombs.

        The machines do all the driving here,
           because all the humans have
               lapsed into an unconscious statis.
                   Like butterflies waiting
                       for spring to come,
                            yearning for the time to be...

        To go free
           from their metal crypts
               crawling (slowly) across
                   the mobius asphalt strips.


                                        -Igal Koshevoy; February 18, 1993
                                         SOCIOPATHS Ju.4b



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      Anyways, I've wasted enough of your  valuable time and brain cells, so I
 honestly hope you have enjoyed the poetry that I've  written.   I  also  hope
 that  some of the stuff written has 'rubbed-up' on you and has or will change
 your life and that of others somehow for the better.  Take care.

                                                    -Igal Koshevoy


         Ŀ
           Copyright 1993 Igal Koshevoy, all rights reserved!  
          "Mess wit' mah' poems n' 'Ah break ya' finghas!"  -JTB 
         

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