(original)

(original)

There I carried my flowers, and pulled up my pants,
our big Country was flooded with love and romance,
there was nothing like quarrel or spleen,
and the leaves were amazingly green.

Now my years passed by and I’ve shrunk to a blog,
but I clearly see through this digital fog
how we’re scattered, abandoned and lonely,
how the first was the last and the only.

(original)

Just anyone, it may attract,
can pick it up and bring it back.

My scarlet heart -
it has no sense,
it has no job,
no purpose true.
It is not bad -
it’s innocence,
I got without it
things to do.
So night or day -
we split at once:
I let it lay
and rush to dance.

Someone would stare, would care or would
just crush it with his heavy boot.

(original)

If someone would tell me
that forty like fourteen
are still overwhelming,
exciting and naughty
and people still maybe
entwine as one
to kiss… that could save me
where nothing else can.

Most dreadful dream that I ever seen:
I meet you again in about fifteen
I rush to you, and I yell like mad,
and I kiss your lips, but your lips are shut.

Your kiss is like rude
rusty metal thread
once you’ve kissed me you should
only leave me dead -
wrap it up round your hands
and my neck, and pull
do be honest once
play by killers rule.

..alas, I can only get drunk and wait,
and in years like in acid to dissipate.

You’re soon forty in less then thirty
we should get sober, balanced and sporty
do not despond, correspond and obtain
final indulging release from that pain,
so long, do you hear? so long, do you hear?
so long, so long, so long, do you hear?
so long, so long, so long, do you hear?
and don’t you dare
to kiss me again.

(original)

and if I read – I see no point,
I read last year,
did not enjoy it…

(original)

Some were stuck in the “Doors”.
We loved them, but we didn’t sing them -
their “errr” didn’t go with
port and pale dopey booze
in the three-liter glass cans
from cheap juice of bloody pomegranates
ditched right there where we bought it -
what a joyful fuck up!

We sang “Kalinov most”,
we sang “Kino”, that was over,
we sang “Aukcion”, we yelled “Nol”,
suddenly switching to “Laertsky”…
Women would sulk,
they did not like to bouncy fuck
to the cheerful outbursts of obscenities,
nor to soulfully fuck to the sad songs
with all the anatomy.

The plywood kitchenette couches -
squeeze into the corner.
Seats could be lifted, and there
were flour and sugar.
Old greasy gas stoves,
painted flake-wood cupboards
with transfer-pictures of anything
from flowers to Crocodile Gena.
Wobbly chairs and stools,
and worn out linoleum floors,
shabby brown-colored plinth,
would you fuck in that setting?!

And yet they – those women of ours -
did make it alright.
Our guitar did help them, and help us
(herself, she wouldn’t fuck).
Our wine did help us in what
we tried to escape from…
“For those alive, it’s just a break on the way,
for the dead – it is home”

Then we dragged ourselves out,
which was called: “to have dignity”,
having fucked – you fuck off.
Hard to take off into impenetrable darkness,
into the chill, weak and sober and freezing,
but a hundred times worse – to stay.

I’m not giving names of the districts, or streets,
or subway stations, or gateways,
or penny-wise faces bargaining “how much?”,
of the dark booths with icon-lamps shining on booze,
nor any numbers, or last-names, or dates,
or distinctions.

(original)

Still it remains the only goddamn one,
it all but grows and strengthens year to year,
it will not die, it kills, but do you hear? -
I am at war and war has just begun.

I am at war and war has just begun!

(original)

Except our witty blessed shit
that owes naught to none indeed.

(original)

You wait for death, but nature starts
to misbehave like naughty pet -
it cooes like doves, it purrs like cats,
it skips and jumps on your death bed.
It makes indecent, shocking mess,
so loud and far from lullaby,
and you a part of this distress,
and it’s impossible to die!

(original)