The vociferous beauty of Fyodor Dostoevsky outshines the rest; alas, sometimes I think I'm a kindred Karamazov. Tolstoy entertained as well, but The Idiot proved to be mercurial sublimity, in passing, like a 427 Cobra Jet beyond the furious gallop of an import, bastard.
The days of Ronald Raygun and the Soviets cold-waring shit out to dry--that was incredible. Yet we survived, and thrived, drinking Coke watching The Cosby Show and simply dealing. We are America, yet we remember the adversary; thus, I love you Russia.
And an ode, from drunk'n patriot of 1776:
The Serbian Animal housed many sublime,
Offering up with a German rhyme
That such a culture would start some shit,
Like foolishly pinching Hulk Hogan's ex-wife's tit.
Thus, adore the Greeks and admire the fighter
Of the British Aisles who cranked a lighter
To the narcotic effulgence of shamrock vine
Making love a poesy-like rhyme;
Alas, I beseech you bye and farewell,
For wends the weird of LSD hotel--
No Shit.
Too, buy my books: King's Books!
Sincerely, Mark David King
And the greatness of The Idiot and the Karamazov piece is genuine adoration of a decent culture. That simple. And it should be hungrily embraced . . .
