IconElegies

I never thought I would live forever after my horrible end but I thought  that something like that might happen that my body would be preserved for generations to come in that strange communist church. I was a man and not God, not an object of worship. That's what I objected to. But that's what I became for years, until they no longer knew what to do with me until I fall into pieces and there's no use for me anymore. A note from the poet. Vladimir Lenin still lies in his mausoleum.

As my last wish, I asked my friend to destroy my writings, but he didn't follow my wish. I am more famous than ever, the idol of all strange people. And I only wrote about the world as I saw it, strange and frightening. But I wasn't alone. That was a surprise. A poet's note. Franz Kafka is one of the most famous writers.

I only did what I was told. I had to hide behind it, because there was no other option. Emotions have no part in this. I considered myself an official of Death, An architect of destruction, but I don't want glory for this. Who would? I have no regrets, I only did what I was told. Poet's note. High-ranking Nazi Adolf Eichmann was responsible, among other things, for transports to death camps during World War II.

Was I a crazy king, a dreamer? They gave my crown to my crazy brother. They thought I was crazy, but how crazy is it to love beauty, to build beautiful castles, which people admire centuries later, to sleep by day, to live by night, to live in the embrace of sweet melancholy, alone, without formalities. Yes. Such a crazy king was I. Poet's note. Ludwig II was a very special king of Bavaria.

Paradise is lost, I, Judas, know. Christ asked me to betray Himself. I betrayed. I threw the silver coins into the temple. I hanged myself and my filthy life was over. But I still live, in all men lives a Judas. All betray their ideals in the end. They admit that they are Judases before they acknowledge that Love concerns all beggars of mercy. Poet's note. Judas Iscariot betrayed Jesus.

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.

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.  

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.

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.

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

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 

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 

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.

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. 

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.  

Until the last time I tried to call, until no one answered. I left behind a mystery, Marilyn Monroe, but really I was Norma Jean, forever loveless. When they found me, I lay naked in my bed, the way they wanted to see me. But Norma Jean, she didn't answer. Then I just slept, I left Marilyn to them.