deepundergroundpoetry.com
Entry №2
There are things I still don’t know how to write about.
Not because I don’t remember them—but because memory feels too small for what they carry.
I was only a child in 2008, but I remember the sounds.
The deep, mechanical thunder of tanks rolling through Gori hills.
Russian ones, crawling like steel insects across the land, dragging fear behind them like smoke.
Mother told me not to look, but I did anyway.
I had to.
Some part of me, only being nine years old, already knew—I needed to remember what war looked like if I was going to survive in the shadow of it.
The grown-ups called it the "Five-Day War."
Like it was a weekend storm.
Like it didn’t leave villages gutted, families vanished, boys turned into ash behind their own fences.
This came after Saakashvili.
The man with manic eyes and cocaine in his grin.
The one who turned nationalism into an art form and police brutality into daily theatre.
He built shiny glass facades while our schools crumbled.
He filled the streets with cameras and called it progress.
I learned early on:
The State doesn’t protect you. It performs your protection while sharpening the knife behind its back.
By the time Ivanishvili took the stage, I was old enough to see behind the curtain.
His empire smelled different—less fire, more rot.
He wasn’t a tyrant with fire in his eyes. He was worse.
He was calm.
Like a spider. Like a crypt keeper.
An oligarch with Bolshevik nostalgia,
wrapping the country in a velvet noose of fake socialism and quiet authoritarianism.
He talked of "traditional values" while kids were beaten on Rustaveli.
He let kept portraits of Stalin like sacred icons.
He let the Neo-Nazis swell.
He let the cops break bones.
He smiled while it all happened.
Not because I don’t remember them—but because memory feels too small for what they carry.
I was only a child in 2008, but I remember the sounds.
The deep, mechanical thunder of tanks rolling through Gori hills.
Russian ones, crawling like steel insects across the land, dragging fear behind them like smoke.
Mother told me not to look, but I did anyway.
I had to.
Some part of me, only being nine years old, already knew—I needed to remember what war looked like if I was going to survive in the shadow of it.
The grown-ups called it the "Five-Day War."
Like it was a weekend storm.
Like it didn’t leave villages gutted, families vanished, boys turned into ash behind their own fences.
This came after Saakashvili.
The man with manic eyes and cocaine in his grin.
The one who turned nationalism into an art form and police brutality into daily theatre.
He built shiny glass facades while our schools crumbled.
He filled the streets with cameras and called it progress.
I learned early on:
The State doesn’t protect you. It performs your protection while sharpening the knife behind its back.
By the time Ivanishvili took the stage, I was old enough to see behind the curtain.
His empire smelled different—less fire, more rot.
He wasn’t a tyrant with fire in his eyes. He was worse.
He was calm.
Like a spider. Like a crypt keeper.
An oligarch with Bolshevik nostalgia,
wrapping the country in a velvet noose of fake socialism and quiet authoritarianism.
He talked of "traditional values" while kids were beaten on Rustaveli.
He let kept portraits of Stalin like sacred icons.
He let the Neo-Nazis swell.
He let the cops break bones.
He smiled while it all happened.
Published 19th Apr 2025
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