To Anna Ivanovna with the Red Flag

In The West


The Wayward Sisters –

Jana, The Ripper, and Evergreen


All Three:


The three of us –

the world enchanted!

Incanted all spells,

licenses granted,

slanted and scolded

all and sundry

like thunder.

Of evil we’ve done

a sum and a wonder,

a dam erected –

just us elected,

became the idols

of the masses,

into dolts and asses

turned them, rejected.

Our souls we’ve sold

for gold and praise,

to gaze upon the world now,

through which primeval evils blaze,

by us created and directed,

rejected by none,

for they love fame and wealth

more than their mother

or brother,

and would rather the world end

then the slightest hardship suffer,

but spend the stock of the earth

on themselves,

and roll and rock

until they fall from Grace

but would never

praise the God

we sever

from them

forever and ever.


We are the Madams and Ladies First!

Our word is last and final!

In thirst for blood and gore

we blast resistance to dust

and turn everyone’s spinal cord

to rust

and pulp,

and burn continents

and states

in one gulp

of unsatiable need

that stunts mercy

and frees the greed.


Need we say

that we may

and do

flaunt our prestige and rule

for every fool to queue before us

for the permission to live and act.

The very fact of us on the top,

making the rabble bend the knee,

is a stop to goodness and sense,

whence no love may commence

but death and darkness,

cold and dense.


We speak for all

and lie abroad,

declare the dead worth our joys,

profit from each ploy we birth,

while we toy with lives and souls

that our decrees end and doom,

as disgrace tumbles and rolls,

and our glee fumbles

and rends

the tissue parched

of the world’s womb.


Jana –

The First Sister:


Defunct afresh,

my soul junked,

I trash in convulsions

in the cauldron dunked.

By the coven lead,

the Ukraine and Europe,

and the world is bled,

for Serbia, and Russia entire,

in fire and dread and spell

must be offered

and die

so that,


from hell,


may I.


Indispensable I am,

a sham truly,

but to all a lamb,

a product’s product,

I abduct and obstruct,

and beget

new lawyers,

to get God’s eyes


that I was

the force for good

in the world.


A knoll I hear,

distant and sad,

for the dead slaves,

while the knaves are fed

their blood and tears,

with no fears of judgment

or jeers,


to celebrate me

it all appears.


I only cry and remorse feel,


hardened as steel,

for all the riches

I coveted, acquired,

that warm me not

as I rot,

putrid and foul,

in flames untired.


The Ripper –

The Second Sister:


I hold the purse.

I nurse the grudge.

For a lover’s


I’ve sold lies.

I judge

who may live or die.

I fly high

and hover

over the future

of kids and nations,

deciding whose face

to cover by the mold,

or free to respire,

their dear to hold,

whose patients

will expire and

to a morgue be rolled,

or grant them rations

to see the light,

and for whom

so cold

will be the night.


I say We

but I mean I,

for I say Nay

that you may die

of hunger

if I whim it so,

or if anger comes to

my iron fist

in a Gucci glove,

which my mask matches,

and even the stain

from the virtuous blood

shed for my gain.


I love

ice cream,

as dear as sin.

And gin, too,

deep in the bin.

My fridge alone

would enrage

the public

whose average wage

is twice its price.

The myrrh and spice

of my fife,

the Republic,

is to bully and mock

the fully aware

the laughingstock

they are.


I am the Tsar,

and they –

the spare parts.

The arts

of the Dominion


the hearts and bellies

I need

all elections

to lead.

My opinion,

the order, indeed,


to cede and desist

and concede all to ME

with my smile so fake.

Let them eat cake,

my last words shall be

to the hungry smellies

at a charity bake.



Evergreen –

The Third Sister:


Supreme I am,

as vast as a conspiracy,

the cream of the cream,

the jam from the chalice

of the nasty

and the malice.

The head I am

of global piracy,

the horned one

of the coven,

my foot is cloven.

My words are chaste,

my actions crush

and drum and slam

all who don’t in haste


to be my donor

and kiss and honor

my foot so callused.

I fit in no palace,

for I’m

so grand

and awesome

to a man


a mouse.

No house

is white enough

to lighten the dark

in my eager


No praise can restore

or hark the vigor

into my wilted


I’m triggered


and am sore,

I revenge avow,

if no one is there

to flatter.

Tiresome minions


before me

but must bow

and vow,

and cater

to all my whims.


You, peasants,


and fools,

my tools

you are,

my toast and feed,

for sure as my creed,

my breed’s


I eclipse you!

I love them fresh or canned,

the dreams

of the children,

in their tears

fried –

I came, I saw, they died!

Salted or bland,

as I stand

above all,

my lips are fed

by the hand

of the Devil.

I revel,


to Lilith,

becoming elite.

She makes me

her thrall,

granting me power,

ousting my soul.



All Three Sisters:



We rule you and fool you!

None can escape!

Or scrape a living.

No almsgiving permitted!


Masses dim-witted!

Surender and serve!

From the path

don’t swerve

of our wrath!


Adore us,

don’t bore us,

and love

the bondage!




don’t work,

earn and

pay taxes,

or rot

on welfare,

burn from the frost


sleep in a square.


Not that it matters!


We lurk for work,

hunting the donors,

fight tooth and nail,

command the axes

funds to curtail,

or honors

to bestow.

The rabble and the mob,

that we so awe,

for us will beat down

a scholar, a snob,

shaping our order

by public disorder.


Chaos controlled,

and brains not clever

shall keep the chains

and all in the mould,

in which the yearning

for freedom will throb

but wither and fold

forever and ever.



In The East


The Babushka –

Anna Ivanovna:


In this absence of angels,

while hatred around us thrives,

by faith, I shall be kept.

When for the wasted lives

all the true mothers have wept,

when our starved bodies


when a wave of anguish

after a wave

cuts deeper than a knife,

and when the demons

their plunder crave –

I shall be brave!


From their graves

vampires rise

and are bleeding the quick for life…

Thick ropes are held by our hangmen…

Poisonings, faithlessness – rife…


I must raise the glory

from the dust,

and abide by the pain

I must,

to keep the courage,

and the luck of the victors,

and the convictions I can trust.

Evil I must not fear,

I must not ever fail,

even when pains

my body sear,



with a folded tail

I wish

to disappear.

To abide by the oath I must,

spare not a single foe,

never withdraw,

only bestow the ancient awe,

and saw the seeds of Freedom

in the wild,

proclaim the saving of each child

a duty

more sacred than all!

And thus –

beyond all sham or a fuss,

I shall be saved by my duty!


When I look around…

So many shrouds…

My handkerchiefs are clouds,

by doubts drenched,

in yearning for a drought rich,

the ones which wept all summer,

and like the drummer of death

drummed and announced

enormous amounts,


and multiple counts

of disenchantments and pains,

reigns of evil witches,

lame dwarfs,

and rabid bitches,

vengeful crones,

and hungry hyenas,

which fight for bones

and the rotten flesh

with vultures,

until they smash and scatter,

as if nothing should


in a burst of madness.


A desperate cry of ultimate sadness

a question sends,

which cuts at the very root,

and yearns like a poisoned dart,

and lends a touch of challenge

to a fugitive’s injured foot

and a brother’s broken heart –

Are life, or love, or existence

worth the strain of persistence?


But – look!

Our soldiers come!

It took them long


our souls now hum

the Savior’s song!

Into Freedom

I burst,


waving the flag

of old,

rolled up too long,

which my thirst,


so strong,

so vast,

it has, at last,



They talk my talk!

Oh, how sweet

is my mother tongue!

To greet them

I briskly walk,

renewed and young.


I know

soldiers are

ravenous, fatigued,

and grieving.

But –


their food

to me

are giving?!


No, that fare, scarce,

I pined for steady,

hungry and scared,

praying for life,

you must,

dearest child,

for yourself

keep ready.


What say you?!

Don’t dirty the tongue!

Don’t blaspheme


by the smelly dung

and mud


my ears.

My blood boils

and my joy spoils!

A gully erupts

between us.

Blood and gore

I see,

and poisoned fruits!

Peers no more

we are!

Spears and flames

that char,

kill the names,

Holy and Sacred,

of our Roots!



From your hands?!


Bands of


and killers,

slaves of dictators

and our Hell’s pillars!


I won’t! I won’t!


Don’t trample

and soil

that symbol,

that temple!

Before it,

around it,

ample, ripe


beat a retrieval

and recoiled!

Under that flag

my parents fought,

the fortune

of your life securing!

But your heart,

with rancor fraught,


by hatred of me,

is luring.

Don’t be entrapped!

Your soul raped,

eternal life scrapped

for you

by the hate


in sugar

by the vulgar crones

who send you the drones

and cheer you on

to be forever

condemned and gone!


Hear my husband’s

desperate warning,

and his pleas sent:

With your glee,

and your dark arts,

don’t invite


into our hearts

rent by

endless mourning!


Weak are my hands,

Robust, your feet.

Hunger my stomach


but dignity

my death demands!

Your anger

all your grace

will eat,

but never it will

my virtue beat!


Oh, beasts sated,

soulless shells

of true ethics sold!

Loyalty is never debated!

Love has no price in gold!



Grief oppresses.

Hate abounds.

On the trail of peace

no caresses

but packs

of war hounds.

Humankind’s turned

into a bog,

a swamp,

plunged into a fog.


Madmen may fake it

that they are clever,

that the blood

they drank

turns them into sages,

but never shall mud,

Hear, thee!,

be equal to a bud,

and the pages

of life

pure shall be –

Forever and ever


into the ages of ages!




For my heart

is ill.

The already dead

from sorrow


you don’t have

to torture

or kill.


Višeslav Simić, Ph.D.


Victory Day – May 9, 2022





Leave A Reply