All we need to be happy…

Posted: December 27, 2011 in poetry
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All we need to be happy, as simple as that,
All we need to be happy – it’s you, me and cats.
– Cats? What cats?
– Cats, what cats, oh you know them I bet:
A cat of your pretty face, a cat of my manly ways,
a dream cat, a spring cat, a far away gleam cat,
a wedding veil cat and that of a death bed.



About the beauty and the world

Posted: December 30, 2008 in poetry
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At last The Beauty’s saved the world
and we rejoiced a lot.
All nice things flourish in the world,
all ugly – die and rot.
But look around – it rots and stinks,
there’s just too many of those bad things,
my Beauty.


About the first day and the last day

Posted: December 30, 2008 in poetry
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When I first jolly marched to my first day of school
everything to my eyes was so bright and so cool:
bits of rain, shallow puddles, black soil,
that September which nothing could spoil.

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.


My scarlet heart…

Posted: September 7, 2008 in poetry
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My scarlet heart
I don’t protect,
we lightly part,
I dance away.
Just anyone
can touch, or pat,
or throw, or drop it,
night and day.

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.


So long

Posted: September 6, 2008 in poetry
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You’re soon forty, in less then thirty,
and I can only get drunk and dirty.
The time is pregnant, that couldn’t be aborted
and I can only get slaughtered.

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.


I’m siting strained, afraid and still…

Posted: August 31, 2008 in poetry

I’m sitting strained, afraid and still,
don’t move no joint, not even blink,
I’m thirsty, yet I do not drink,
cause then I gulp and choke, and spill,
and if I eat – I crumb on pants,
and if I walk – I stumble and fall
and if I don’t – I’m numb and all,
and if I write – there’s not much sense…

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


Guitars don’t fuck

Posted: August 28, 2008 in poetry
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We yelled to guitars in kitchens,
drank wine and randomly fucked.
Women admired us wistfully,
silently smoked and day-dreamed,
tenderly beckoned to fuck them.
Anyone done with the singing, gone fucking,
was quickly replaced by another,
only the grimy necked guitar
would stay, ’cause
guitars don’t fuck.

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.