At The Lakes

Here is the Black Movement.
A She-Leyak appears behind Markhor.
The bust of Iehudi does not understand.
A bubble of shaking air surrounds Markhor and the She-Leyak.
It pushes the ferroliquid away.
The bust of Iehudi is angry.
The bust of Iehudi shouts.
Here is the Black Movement.
The She-Leyak is like an Indonesian shirt with tied up sleeves.
There’s a black bag with an intubator on her head.
The bag distends as she breathes.
She-Leyak breathes with a whizz.
Here is the Black Movement.
She-Leyak crepitates into Markhor’s ear.
Markhor.
Find Xenia.
Find Xenia.
And morning keep your Eurasia open for me.
Morning keep your Eurasia open for me.
Morning keep your Eurasia open for me.
The bust of Iehudi shatters into pieces.
Here is the Black Movement.
Here passed the Black Movement.
It does not affect Markhor.
The protowaves of the Lake of Eurasians are alive again.
She-Leyak drops Markhor into the Lake.
And Markhor wakes up.
From forty years of anxious Eurasian sleep.

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The Eurasia of the Connected Platforms is falling down.
Under each Platform a newborn Lake.
Fresh and sizzling.
Xenia walks through the water.
The Platforms are bending down.
ICBMs turned into coaches fall from the struts.
They carry Eurasians inside the hollowed warheads.
The supports of the Platforms warp with a grind.
The Platforms collapse one after another.
Xenia is carrying a skeleton of a horned pilot.
A swarm of choppers leaves the Platforms.
They all fly towards the land.
Xenia wears the last pair of real leather headphones on this hemisphere around her neck.
Xenia has long unzipped her pants to let the wind inside her pussy.
Infertile and smug she wanted to walk.
On the shores of Nakhodka, Chongjin and Wakkanai.
Xenia disappears in the water.
This Lake is filthy and polluted.
Toxic foam is covering Markhor’s political overalls.
He was supposed to finally look in them like a High Eurasian.
It did not happen.
Traces of feet leads away from the Lake.
Markhor wipes the foam from his cheek.
He looks at it with disgust.
Markhor knows he has to follow the traces.
This Lake is in the middle of the Taigas.
The Taigas known as eonic.
Markhor examines a sign on the fence.
It forbids to enter the Lake.
For the next hundred and fort-four years.
Taiga soughs temptingly.
Markhor enters the Taiga.
Branches and lichen wrap tightly around his body.
They suck all the slime from his overalls.
They cleanse the wounds on Markhor’s forehead.
The dew moistens Markhor.
Markhor drinks it voraciously.
The plants back off.
They immediately wither.
Markhor is surrounded by a patch of dead foliage.
Markhor believes that he deserved it.
This sacrifice of the Taigas.

Fungi grow on the trees.
The TV surges bioelectricity from them.
On the screen there is Ana Blum.
The only Jewess to ever make a carrier in Eurasian showbiz.
Ana Blum is singing in Studio Eurasiense.
She played the erhu in a Chinese squad.
But she fell in love with an Eurasian lad.
Took her by the hand, showed her the Lakes.
She pierced those waves so very strange.
Markhor finds a board with the map of the Taigas.
But someone has removed the “You are here” marker.
Ana Blum is singing in front of millions.
How far you want to go.
How many lives you’ll risk.
I don’t want you, Markhor.
You’re full of Chinese myths.
Oh, I don’t want to live like this.
What a show it was.
What euphoria did it cause in the Eurasian nation.
There used to be Eonites in these Taigas.
One of them would light a flare right now.
The orange glare would attract horners.
It would gleam in their eyes.
The Eonites weren’t mature.
They wanted to leave the Taigas one day.
Wearing crystal, bone, alloys, and rags.
Misanthropy, cure-wine and black bands around their necks.
That’s what they would have.
If they left the Taigas.
Now they sit in a circle.
Old and dry.
That's what remains of the Eurasia of the Taigas.
Xenia lies in the middle.
Only the whites of her eyes are visible.