Oil on Canvas (28.10.01)
I heard the painting of a poet spoken on the radio
I'm stirred by the essence of his words
He's talking about a picture
He's taking us to a place past pain
We laugh at the fun and the black biology
Of kids and pets with their weapons of humor.
Then an arrow through the thigh and a closed and down-bowed eye
In a museum without walls waits to be classified
As the new agents of national service
Busy themselves before hypno-screens of
Sinister dispersal in the secret city of Chimera.
I see the prophetics of a scientist inferred on the TV
I sense the alchemy in his deeds
He, S. Popov so technically sweet
Takes on the guise of terror in chief
Designing the new bad bugs
Of ebola, legionella, smallpox, (Stepnogorsk).