IconElegies

Under the ice of the Neva I realized that I had come to you, God. This time forever and for good. I was Your God, but I was called a deceiver and a libertine, I was one of those, but I knew You, God. You me. Grigori Rasputin was not a lie, they couldn't even kill me. Oh Tsarevich, poor thing, dirty Rasputin will not save and heal you, I know, the Emperor will be destroyed. Poets note. Grigori Rasputin is a landmark in history.

Death is a long time to wait knowing that it will inevitably come. And I could not wait any longer. Your head falls and the people have had their revenge. I am hated as I was once admired. Lies and slander, there's enough of that. So short was the path from glory to the darkest dungeon that it turned me gray. I had nothing but my pride with the people mocking in the background the whole way to the guillotine. I kept it, my pride, and the people had their revenge. Queen Marie Antoinette was executed by guillotine.

I was a victim of the king's lust. I couldn't satisfy that lust either but many other women could. From the queen's maid to the queen, I paid for crimes I didn't commit, my greatest crime was not giving birth to a son, an heir. But I gave birth to a queen, and laughed on the scaffold, after all,  I was innocent of the crimes I was accused of, and an executioner was brought from France for me. Then I became the Queen of Heaven, worthy to the end. And my successor was already waiting for her turn. Anne Boley was the second wife of King Henry VIII, who was beheaded for infidelity and incest. The allegations were fabricated.  

They still fear me, even though I'm gone. They wonder what I knew, and made my own decisions about my life. Jeffrey Epstein is still a name. And I'm not going anywhere anytime soon, even though I'm gone. Prison wasn't fun, why would I stay there, I belonged in glory, not misery. A poet's note. Jeffrey Epstein, who knew the rich and famous, is still the news of the day years after his death.  

I can't breathe. I begged them to stop. They didn't stop, not even when I called out for my mother. By then it was too late. I would never have guessed that I would become the face of change, the face of rebellion and centuries of oppression. And to others, I was just a junkie and a thief who deserved his fate. I was a human being, I had a name. The death of George Floyd at the hands of the police was followed by widespread protests.

I was cursed. That's how it had to be. Cursed in life, cursed in death. My desire to die, that's what finally got me. No one else would have stuck my head in the gas oven. I knew I was a genius, I knew I was great. I just wouldn't be there to see it for myself. My desire to die won. Maybe it was meant to be this way. Everything in life was either too much or too little for me. Poet´s note. Sylvia Plath committed suicide. Today she's a classic poet.    

That's how it happened. The football season was over. I lived a long time. Too long. Even a young wife wasn't enough to keep me alive. I've already done everything I wanted to. And I dared. This wasn't fun anymore. I wasn't fun. I decided my fate, like always. It was easy, it didn't hurt. And you don't shoot just anyone into the sky with a cannon. Poet's Note. Hunter S. Thompson was the father of gonzo journalism

Hollywood kills nightingales and spits them out. That's what happened to me. Dreams didn't come true, tragedy was enough. One drunken night, I had enough  of your Hollywoodland, and I immortalized myself in history  by jumping off of you. I might have thought that I would be remembered for this. And so it was. I failed in life, but not at everything. And in a cruel irony, I would have gotten  the role of a woman committing suicide. I did it. Poet's note, Peg Entwistle committed suicide in 1932 by jumping off the iconic Hollywood sign.  

When I died, of course people mourned the great Valentino, none of them knew Rodolfo, me. They mourned their dreams, their youth. My death came as a surprise to me too. I was amazed to see the hysteria caused by my death, why? I was really just a poor boy from Italy, a waiter and a gigolo, but my best role was Rudolph Valentino, the Latin lover. A note from a poet. Rudolph Valentino was one of the first great movie stars.

I was an angel of the poor, poor myself, although luck was with me, but I was not allowed to live long, death grew in my womb, which took me. I loved the poor, I hated the elite, I spoke to the poor when death was already waiting for me. I never abandoned them. I was feared even after death, my embalmed body traveled the world, until I was allowed to return, to my beloved Argentina. Poet's note. Eva Peron was the wife of President Juan Peron and a figure beloved by the people.

My short life was crazy. One day, I delivered a challenge to a duel, and I got shot myself. The emperor's cousin shot me. He couldn't wait, I guess. And the madness didn't stop there. My death was to start a revolution. Even crazier, women rub my bronze penis in the cemetery,  thinking they're getting pregnant. Not me, of course. Anymore. Poet´s note. Victor Noir was a French journalist who is buried in the Pere-Lachaise cemetery.

The title of my last song was Dead. I was already dead then, even though I was still singing it. The rest was just waiting for my death, with heroin and games, my death was still some time away. Alone. I wanted to be alone and alone I got to be. Another dead rock star. Poet´s note. Layne Staley was the singer of Alice in Chains.

 I had the blood of millions on my hands. I sent people to their deaths because it was demanded of me. I was an architect of fear, a coward and a loner myself. Even then they betrayed me because they feared me more. When Father Sunny died, my end began. They shot me, just as I had shot people. Poets note.  Lavrenti Berija was the head of NKVD.

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.