IconElegies

This is my last revolution. This revolution failed. This was a crusade of the rascals. I am dirty and hungry myself. My life is at an end. I should have saved the last bullet for myself, and not been taken prisoner. They eye me like a prize bull. Tomorrow they will shoot me, take my body to their masters. There is no more Che Guevara. The revolution will not die with my death. They only shot a man. Poet´s note. Che Guevara was shot in Bolivia. Since his death, he has become an icon of revolutionaries.

I was lost in love. I was lost in life.  I became numb to alcohol and drugs asi it happens to people. I fell in love with the one I shouldn't have fallen in love with. That's how it always goes. Only I died, he lives. When I died, I was alone. No one was there. A crazy situation for a singer. I left, but my songs remain the same. Poet´s note. Amy Winehouse was the last 27´s club. Great singer. 

I couldn't sleep. I just couldn't. You can be the best actor in the world but you can't act your own life. Like the Joker, who laughs when forced. There are always new stars. New Jokers. I sleep. Forever. Poett´s note. Actor Heath Ledger died  of a comabination of sleeping pills.

I was Manolete. Braver than any of the other matadors. I brought death closer than anyone else. I didn't like attention, not anything extra. I was a hero of the spaniards, until my last fight came, and even after that. I left my fate to death, that time it won in the form of a bull. I had already won love, that was enough to me but my love was not allowed to say goodbye. Poet´s note. Manolete was spanish matador who died at the arena 1947. 

I hope the departure is happy, and I never return. The spikes don't help, the morphine doesn't help, the pain is unbearable, has been since when I was pierced. The pain win, the pain is everything. I am now its, until it falls off me. Long live life! Poet´s note. Frida Kahlo is one of the most famous artists. She was injured in an accident and suffered from pain throughout her life.

I should have died many times, but I only died as an old man. I no longer drank the cheapest wine in the cheapest tavern. I lived comfortably, surrounded by cats and young women who admired me. I had to live to be the king of the lazy, a group that no one wants, with outcasts and madmen knocking at my door. But someone had to do it, someone had to bring hope to those who no longer have that joy. I had the biggest balls in Los Angeles. Poet´s note. Author Charles Bukowski is still hero for outcasts.

I am one of the few who have hanged themselves after they were dead, and whose brains have been missing. They could hardly contain their emotions  when they let them examine the brains of our terrorists, like the Nazis did back in the day. They wanted to know why we became violent. Why do we even have to ask that? They would have looked around. And they would know why a star journalist became a terrorist. Poet´s note. Ulrike Meinhof was a RAF-terrorist.

 They found me wandering in the street in clothes that didn't fit me. My end could have been written by myself, dark and uncertain. As I lay in the dim light of the hospital, dripping with feverish sweat, I had repeated: Reynolds, Reynolds! Then I went to that land, which had always been true to me. Lord, help my soul, if you help the wicked, and you will. Poet´s note. Edgar Allan Poe was a brillian novelist. 

I fled to Paris, because I didn't want to be a star. I was a poet, not a clown who makes money for others. I couldn't escape myself either, I died in a bathtub, so the story goes. At last I was clean, clean from a life, which was too much for me. My death is true, the rest is a story, and that's what I like. Now I lie for eternity as the object of a national pilgrimage, believe it or not, I am a poet, not a star. Poet´s note. Jim Morrison was one of the most famous rockstars. 

I was real.  So many have pretended to be me. The lost daughter of the Tsar, even though  I was supposed to be born a son, an heir. But I died, like all the rest of us. Before I had to die, I blossomed for a short time. I still remember the shots, the death cries of my sisters, the end of the dynasty. I was not a foolish girl, I was a victim of my time, Grand Duchess Anastasia. A poet's note. There are many stories about Anastasia Romanova, but she was murdered in 1918 along with the rest of the Tsar's family.

You were born poor. You probably also died poor. God gave you a gift. You knew how to play football. You were a hero to millions, a church was founded for you, women worshipped you, and men envied you, when you were young and a god. Then you were a spitting image to millions. Fat, drug addict, unpredictable. That's what an athlete's life is like as a living god. No one expected you to live to be old. That's what booze and drugs do. You numbed your heart and soul with them. You didn't die forgotten, but we don't know about statues to you.

A girl drowned in the Seine. She was lifted from the river with a happy smile on her face. Only sixteen years old, it was estimated. She survived. She was a death mask that adorned the apartments of dark artists. The most famous anonymous in the world, even after all these years. Why did she smile when she died? No one told us, because no one longed for happiness. Was death a joy for her? She remained the most famous unknown. Is that why she smiled? Was she unhappily in love? Had life never had time to begin, did she not let happiness come? She knew it.

The cruel Tsar locked his son in a dungeon. What a weak-minded, willless, depiction of a man, the Tsar thought of his son. The son was afraid, of his father, a great, mighty, giant force of nature. God was his father to him, a God he feared. One day the Tsar appeared in the dungeon. Only the Father returned. Poets note. This poem is about Peter the Great and his son, Aleksei. 

Genghis Khan fathered countless killed even more countless but his tomb was never found he hid his final resting place more unnoticed than he ever did anything in his life it was taken care of by the slain builders and guards somewhere in the Mongolian steppes he rests blessing his best plan knowing his place in history thinking of new conquests in all solitude letting others search for himself when he has found

The sweating, fallen prince  fell into the trap of his hanged rich friend. Or did he fall anyway? The fool himself told those who love noise. His mother's favorite child, his brother's grief-stricken. Sexual adventures became expensive. He lost his title, glory and dignity. He didn't even have to pay rent. He was allowed to keep his mistress, after all. There was no crown, I guess. All because of royal lust. It's not like to live in a time when even the crowned head must not be a pig. Now the prince is just an ordinary pig, that everyone knows. He digests his shame in some beautiful villa hidden away. The prince is a prince after all. Poets note. Prince Andrew and the sad story 

My name is Andreas Lubitz. I woke up this morning, which I have decided will be my last. If I have enough courage, it must be enough. I was born into a life that should have been going well. I was not feeling well. I did not feel alive. I am a co-pilot. I want to fly. I cannot become a captain  if I tell you everything that I feel. What will I have left if I tell you. The cheap wings of Germany fly. We fly cheap. People are cheap. I am only interested in flying. I do not feel anything. We take off from Barcelona, ​​once again. They are coming from their cheap trip. I wonder if they have not been robbed. Barcelona is a city of crime. This has been done many times. Flight. My flight is almost over. This is a short flight. They call me inexperienced. Just go to the bathroom. I will be remembered for this act. Do I want it? I don't want it. I want it. I don't know. I have to decide, right now. I will. I will be remembered. I've always wanted to fly. I'm going crazy. I just ...

I drowned. I drowned for love. Into the icy sea, where icy people cried for help, after their dreams sank. Rose. I loved you. I loved you more than anyone else. For a brief moment I was happy. The moment we were given. Fly Rose. For me too. Poets note. Jack Dawson was a character in Titanic-movie. 

I knew everyone who stabbed me with their daggers. I would have been a fool not to have known that it was coming. They attacked me like unruly brats, and yet just one blow killed me. Me Julius Caesar. Then I knew, and I covered my face for death. Poets note. Gaius Julius Caesar was a Roman general and dictator 

The King and His Soldiers. Frozen, they retreated from the last battle. The King would die, and the strongest of the soldiers would see home. The King and his soldiers fought the last lost war in a snowy, icy land that remained in the hands of their masters. They had fought, destroyed, and lost Europe together. That had come to an end. The King's fate was the loneliest. It was never known whether his own soldiers shot him. Did the soldiers take revenge after his death? Their anger and screams could not be locked away in a dungeon. After death, there were no kings, no subjects. A scream could be heard. That too fell silent, no one heard. Death silenced even the loudest voices. Poets note. Carl XII was swedish king 18th century 

 It was supposed to be the last time. The last time I used. The last time I had to forget. The last time I had to be forgotten. It was the last time. So many times I had looked death eye to eye. Now it took me. Almost by accident. I knew it would, but I was almost surprised. I was Matthew Perry. I made others laugh, even as I cried.  Poets note. Everybody remembers Matthew from Friends.

I was the girl next door, who fell in love with a monster, to me he was God. I loved a man, whom the world hated, whom the world loved, God and the Devil. To me he was Him. I got him for myself, just a moment before we died, but death, how indifferent in love. He wanted me to run away, to stay alive, for me there was no life without him. I stayed. He was finally mine. I got him for myself in death. Isn't that what love is supposed to be like? Poets note. Eva Braun was Adolf Hitlers secret girlfriend 

Your name was Evelyn McHale. You were an ordinary American woman. I don't want to be your wife, you wrote in your suicide note, and asked that your body be destroyed without a grave. Then you made your final decision. It wasn't your life that made you famous, but your death. You didn't necessarily want this, but you didn't know it anymore. It was your death that made you famous, after falling  from the observation deck of the Empire State Building. That was your last sight. Your beautiful body survived its last mission and the photographer captured the flawless beauty of your face. That was it. A beautiful death, the newspaper said.

She was the most beautiful woman in the world. Once a national treasure, the object of men's dreams, seducing by being, violating by loving. She became invisible long before her death. Withdrawing from the dream. Words were false, beauty became obsolete. She only loved animals, wives were allowed to keep their husbands. Death made it official. The most beautiful woman in the world was dead. God created a woman, Brigitte Bardot, now sleeping forever.

The dictator tells the people about his love on television Even if he sends soldiers to die Even those who have never experienced love That power he has Others have a duty to die Without love in their souls The dictator tells the people about his love on television Not about the soldiers' funeral before the wedding Poets note: Vladimir Putin told about his lovelife in tv.

They got him, Jesus Malverde, They killed him, Jesus Malverde, the thief who took from the rich, and gave to the poor. The angel of the poor, the saint of thieves. The saint  who was not consecrated by the church, loved by the people, and hated by the rich. Poet talks:  Jesus Malverde was  kind of Robin Hood-like person. Also a narco saint. So interesting person. 

You came from far away, from Ukraine to escape the war, to the land of your dreams. You were just trying to get home from work when death struck. You couldn't find peace even in the land of your dreams, when someone thought you could read their thoughts. When the knife took you in anger and madness, you returned to the images of death in horror, to the end of your short life. Your dreams were left in a pool of blood while others watched when you died, alone in the land of your dreams.

 I had to dance one last time. And sing. For money. That's why I was born. To dance and sing. I was given no choice. And I loved it all my life. But then I died. Disgraced. There was no more time. My beloved dream milk killed me. I was Michael Jackson. Crazy Jacko to some, but fortunately loved by some. Most of all, I wanted to be a child myself. In heaven I am a child. No one demands anything from me, and no one disgraces me.

When I died in agony thinking I had been poisoned in the middle of a deserted sea, they took my heart and penis from me. My heart had already been taken, it was Josephine's, who played with it as she pleased, making me, the Emperor, crazy with love and lust. In my last words, I missed France and Josephine on my distant island in the middle of nowhere. I conquered Europe, but the Emperor was not poisoned by enemies, but by love.  

Some say Elvis is not dead, but I did die, just later than my brother. My death may not have been fit for a king, but I lived like a king, extravagantly, fast, women, cars, splendor, I offered them to others without asking for payment. All I really loved was singing. I died alone, extravagantly, without love, as befits a king.  

They called him the white death. He himself did not establish a name. He remained silent and quiet, just as when he was lying in wait for his next kill. Patiently, from darkness to darkness. He shot unexpectedly, the best sniper in the world, from far only a roar could be heard, silence descended on the light, again the life of one enemy ended, which flowed reddish into the white snow. Like a beast for its victim, he again lurked, one with nature, the world's most famous messenger of death, Simo Häyhä, and they called him the white death.

When our car hit the pillar of the Paris tunnel, I knew the world would talk about this for a long time. I had always been photographed, chased, and photographed again. They were after me again, the paparazzi, but for the last time. When I died, I belonged to history, not the paparazzi. I was Princess Diana, divorced, mother of a future king. I died, when my life began.

I bled dry in a famous people's hotel with a knife and a baby in my belly. I always knew I would die before I turned twenty-one, and when I did, I would die famous. I was the blonde black bride of punk, Nancy Spungen. I don't remember who killed me, I was too crazy, but they say it was Sid. I was crazy, unpredictable and violent. So was Sid. We brought out the worst in each other. Our love could only end badly. Yeah, that madness and heroin.

I wanted to kill happy people. I wanted to kill men. Men kill women. I hated them. I slept with them for money. They used me like everyone else used me. I myself asked to die. My whole life was hell. From beginning to end. My mother abandoned me, I didn't know my father. They called me the Deathly Hallows. Me, Aileen Wuornos. I'm coming back with Jesus. I'll cry first.

 I died for others,  suffered, healed, lived,  I could not heal myself while bleeding on the cross. Why did you reject me?  I was Jesus of Nazareth,  man, God.  The man who suffered, rose, and disappeared,  and who so many have claimed to be  after me,  but I did not reappear,  I was human.

they found Laura Palmer's body, wrapped in transparent plastic, beautiful, pale, but murdered, as naked as her soul was hidden. The perfect girl full of cocaine and sex. An angel freed the prom queen, the soul flies free. No more secret diaries, no more nightmares, no more Laura Palmer.    

My name was Brian Jones. I was the Golden Stone,  Child of the Moon. and Stones was my band. I died everyday, they said,  and that was true. I died way too early. I was the first in the 27´s club,  when I drowned.  Please do not judge me to harshly.  

Barbie is dead. Ken is gay. Barbie was a patriarchal bitch, then a feminist icon, lastly a corporate slut. Sleep tight Barbie.