Russian Girl Poem by Johnny Noir

A Russian girl’s farts smell just like her mother’s,
Old Hannah that gave birth
To seven kids back in the dessert where her ancestors wandered
Bewildered by the hot sun—
Pharaoh’s men on their backs, riding camels into the hot wind—
Old Abe coming home to the tent where he had his way with everyone,
But that was then and now I’m sitting downwind
From young Hannah and her dreams of Anastasia—
I won’t forget her, not after laying that hot one
Like Jill on the hill she came tumbling down—
It’s almost enough to make me wish Mila Kunis were Japanese,
But she isn’t and neither is Bill Burroughs but the rest of the Beats were
Hip to sniffing Russian girl’s farts like cold borsht on a hot night, her feet in stockings,
Too drunk to remember her own name—
Sitting at her laptop farting the night away,
Graffiti on the walls saying Stalin is great and all must obey,
It’ll just take a minute, as she looks you in the eye
And tries to make you wear a Pushkin mask
I’ve lost track of the car alarms going off all night, I’ve lost track of everything,
Lost in the fog—
It doesn’t even matter how ugly the girl is, it looks and smells like Heaven
And all the signs point in her direction—
A perfect machine, every move a poem,
Crying out like Jesus on her sacrum’s cross,
Did I mention she was ugly and part Korean,
Not worthy to carry my sandals because she needs more tattoos,
Give or take seconds of eternity, sexy as a bug-eyed Spaniard
Giving birth to a swarm of flies, no one noticing she’s wearing her head upside down—
Just like her soul—
It can’t be denied hers is an old soul, born on an island during an earthquake—
Performing miracles with her faith, Jews dying slowly in the gas chambers—
No one would want such a fate, it goes without saying, but it’s too late—
She drinks her milk thinking her grandmother milking cows—
And all she has to do is go down to the corner store—
She shuffles the cards and blows another fart,
This one louder than the several that came before—
She puts on her glasses and answers the door leaving factories in her wake—
Whenever she speaks it’s always in her sleep,
The words Russian, the voice a low purr and Anastasia weeps
In so many ways she’s like her Arab ancestors in their chains,
In other ways she’s like cement, her farts loud you must admit
Everybody turns around when she cuts one
That brings to mind a legend of the rain forest—
Her ancestors wandering the dessert until an oasis appears out of nowhere,
Old Hannah giving birth to the seven prophets, farting her way to immortality,
Accidentally beautiful to some small degree—
Crucifix in hand, a stake through the heart of a blonde—