Saturday, May 28, 2016

End of May Mayakovsky

 My recording of Mayakovsky's last poem, in my translation.

Already One, Vladimir Mayakovsky, tr. and vocals Larissa Shmailo

Wednesday, May 25, 2016

Donald Trump (sung to the tune of “The Yellow Rose of Texas”)

Trump doesn’t like most Muslims,
Or women, ‘cause “they bleed”;
Calls Warren “Pocahontas.”
(Next, will he say “half-breed?”)

He bullies rivals for his crowds;
His insults are fourth grade.
He tells them, “I will build a wall"
Apparently, without aid.

He bellows out his speeches,
With hate a cardinal part.
Abortion may be legal
Until his change of heart.
He“doesn’t know” re: Klan support;
It seems a crying shame
To give someone who's so confused
unsettling press and fame.

Trump says he has done nothing
That God needs to forgive.
Then live and let live, Donald Trump,
And go with God to live.

Thursday, May 12, 2016

Nomads of New York -Documentary on the lives of New York artists

I am pleased to be included in filmmaker Mitch Corber's documentary, Nomads of New York, about New York poets. The film screens Friday, May  20 at 7:00 pm at Film Maker's Coop, 475 Park Avenue So, 6th floor (at 32nd Street).

Larissa Shmailo "In Paran"

Tuesday, May 03, 2016

In memoriam Steven Charles Werner 5/3/55 - 3/26/85

Death at Sea

The heart, someone wrote once,
Couldn’t walk a straight line,
Couldn’t pass the drunk test if it tried.

Some men play the odds; their heads count cards
But their hearts play inside straights.
They can’t bluff, ever,
Show their hand, most times,
And always give the pot away.

Steven died at sea
Holding the dead man’s hand, aces up.
A poker-faced corpse surfaces on the water:
I see
The orange safety vest
Inflated around his neck
Mocking God and me
Now, now, now, now, now---
Too late.

I held his wake in Vegas,
Sat Shiva in casinos
Where there were no windows, no daytime, no peace.
I put him in a casket,
A greedy one-armed bandit
It still asks me for coins
For its insatiable slot.

I hate the beach
The deadsea beach
The sunblocked snorkeled oily beach
The scuba lungs
The deadgrass skirts
The blind bikinied sunglass beach

I hate the sea
The soulless sea
The sentient, malevolent swampy sea
It don’t care if you live
It won’t cry if you die
It boasts like Yaweh
It spits in your eye
The sea
The stupid sea.

But I love the albatross
That took Steven’s soul,
And I love the lighthouse and the shore,
And I love all sailors, both sober and drunk,
That won’t kill a bird no matter what,
And I love the salt and I love the storm,
And I loved Steven, beyond most doubt,

And if I knew then
What I know now
Could I have walked on water
And pulled him out?

Monday, April 25, 2016

The F Word

Proud to be included in Sarah Waddell's documentary on contemporary feminism, The F Word. Fact: If female entrepreneurs were funded at the same level men are, 6,000,000 jobs would be created.

Sunday, April 17, 2016


I. Je suis une femme de lettres et je gagne ma vie.

All ways a feather: bed your bugs as they bud
Welling roses these sweltering days
Rose roaches blooming by books, near pillows
Blooming by Bloomsday, busting out by June
Busting on Broadway, busting the busts…
Hey, this is…my bra!
(Like swallowing feathers, you know,
dirty feathers.)
And this is December and over there, Christmas
We call April Easter cause she makes them march.

Welling roses in Wellington Rolls
Rose roaches blooming by books, near pillows
Rolls with butter, rolls with jam
Roll her over, let’s go hot damn
Sweltering days as rose roaches bloom
Swilling slaves in rose roaches’ room

Bloom, concrete blossoms!
Bloom, Broadway bottoms!
Bloom! Picks his nose
Bloom! As he grows. . . .

Bed your bugs as they bud, as they breed─what a breed!
Ill-bred, no bread
Dirty cunt’s puking
Just giving me head. . . .

All ways are fettered
Fellated and fucked
For ever and all
But mostly for us

II. Foret sans oiseaux

All ways are feathered.
For rest a bed,
For the rest, a bed . . . .
Hey, this is. . . .I know; I’ve had them for years.
I’ve had it. Have you? Been had?
Have you a forest? Have you a bed?
Have you a haven?
(Forests of feathers: naked birds shrieking
Bony birds swooping
Burning birds screaming
Descending like hell)
Blooming rose roaches all buds destroyed
Bony birds bleeding, beating, breaking, bled. . .
For rest, a bed, for rest. . .
Fine-feathered slaughter by books, near pillows
Rose roaches breed,
Bleed swiftly and die.

III. On commence par ệtre dupe, on finit par ệtre fripon.
─George Sand

Always the feathers: hi, I’m Molly Bloom;
Blow by my bathroom . . . .
By the window a frozen bird, frozen for weeks,
A weak bird, a dead duck, a gone goose,
A pigeon petered out. . . .

But I’m Molly Bloom, you’ve had me, you know:
Birds are just chirping snakes.
But I’m Molly Bloom, I’m a mammal,
I have mammaries, see: This is a bust!
I don’t touch dead birds.

This is December, and over there’s Christmas
And Easter will rise to any occasion
For ever and all
For Peter and Paul. . . .
But I’m Molly Bloom, I’m a pagan, you fuck!
(A man? Where?)

A feather bed for me, a haven for rest,
Pillows for the head, and books for the rest
I need the rest: this is short, where’s the rest?

All ways are fetid
Fellated and fucked
No bird’s no damn good
Until it’s been plucked.
A man? Amen. This is Easter.
Rest that piece.

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