Count Vronsky Appears

From a smoky curtain

of ethereal intentions,

wrapped in an audacity

of ill-tempered irrationality,

there arises a cacophony

endeavored beyond

soul tempered malaise—

wisps of malcontent

ripple unerringly

through the Spirit World,

which serves as the firmament

of corporeal existence—

there is a subtle shifting

of the whole of physicality…

and then appears

Count Vronsky….

Some sort of Machiavellian bastard hose-job beanhead—

Nietzsche would be proud….

There are those who have said

would that they could

but spend a day in his head—

yet, wiser than they,

he rarely let anyone further in

than the nubby-bump

at the threshold to the ear…

As the celebration begins—

sluggardly ne’er-do-wells at every turn—

Vronsky prefers to hold his anonymity,

yet his cover is blown

as the German accosts him:

“Vronsky, my buddy,” he begs,

“They say you’ve had a birthday?…

Ach!  You’re not over the hill yet!”

Raising his eyebrows

in a facial shrug of incredulousness,

Vronsky replies:

“I suppose that would depend on the hill.”

Lost in the haze of beer and vodka,

navigating through the currents

of music and conversation,

conversation and music—

go out to the porch for a smoke,

and then another beer…

yet never losing sight of his mission

for even a moment—

he is continuously touching people,

just tossing about random gropes and hugs,

thrusting them onto the undeserving

and the unappreciative alike…

Vronsky tries to bring himself closer

to those around him

through physical familiarity—

for the most part

they shrink away from him

in fear or loathing;

he is aware they all despise him—

though he doesn’t blame them…

it’s his own fault, really…

It is then a supplanter to his folly comes forth—

a hotty, teen who likes disco

and cold beer and hot oil massages…

she has proud breasts for one so young—

and, indeed, he feels proud of them as well—

and when he engages in the minor molestation

of this wonderfully molestable minor,

he finds her to be soft and warm and good…

“You’re Vronsky, right,” she inquires,

as they writhe copacetically amidst one another;

“I am,” he admits,

and then bites playfully at her neck…

(She tastes like strawberries and insect repellant,

and it turns him on, even as it makes him sick…)

“Do you remember my name?” she asks, hopefully;

“Nope!” he declares,

so filled with bravado

he is unable to feel ashamed,

and instead just goes on biting her.

Laughing, even as she pulls away,

she observes, “You’re kinda different, aren’t you…”

“No,” Vronsky confesses,

“I’m absolutely the same—

it’s everyone else who’s different.”

The darkness ever growing within,

by the time he stumbles off toward home

he is cast too far into shadow

to see the sun peeking over the horizon…

and when he awakens—

much too soon for his liking—

he sees the nearly empty pack of cigarettes

on the nightstand beside him

and can’t help but wonder

who has been there…

or, for that matter,

where she has gone…

but then he remembers—

though he was pretty sure he didn’t smoke—

that they were his,

and he slides rapidly back into unconsciousness,

blessed with dreams of the frivolity of his youth—

in particular, sitting on a hill

on a bright, warm spring day

while his comrade Dmitri

lobbed green grapes up at him….

He is an enigma;

his life, a great religious allegory

depicting the microcosm

of the infinite, earthly existence—

like the harbinger of death

and the three most notable Marx Brothers

all rolled into one….

Perhaps recognizing this

(though never admitting it,

not even to herself),

she who loves him most—

yet with a sort of rejecting acquiescence—

asks, “What did we do to deserve you?”

Count Vronsky smiles:

“God’s angry; He sent me.”