Blue-eyed manic Karamasovian brother,
Sasha, I once counted you part of my home.
Even after you blamed me for fighting those hooligans in Moscow
who wanted to use their knife on you!
I slept on your bed-bug matress in London
but still I felt good with you, talking,
eating sausages and buying art in Camden.
Maybe I should have known what you were doing all along,
what I was doing,
when I painted those masks for your wedding,
which ended up in divorce,
because of polyamory
and you lost interest in me totally,
found my masks boring
or yours. Well,
fuck you, Sasha,
fuck you.