A keresés eredménye

My sorrow is luminous

Versions: #1
I repeat ten times and over
No one knows just how shitty I feel
And the tv is hanging off the ceiling
And no one knows how shitty I feel
Im so fucking tired of all of this
My story is sad, its like this, so again
I repeat- How shitty I feel
 

Along the Tramcar Railways

Versions: #1
And we will go together
On a stroll along the tramcar railways.
We will sit together
On the pipes at the start of a traffic circle.
And the breeze that warms us
Will be a heavy smoke from the foundry’s chimneys.
And our guiding star
Will be a yellow saucer of the roadway signal.
 
If we are lucky,
We will not return to our cage until the nightfall.
We must learn how
To bury ourselves in ground in two seconds.
This way we would stay below
When above us grey trucks will start rolling.
Trucks that take away these
Who never learned or wanted to bury themselves in ground.
 
If we don’t run out of time,
We’ll continue our crawl across the railway sleepers.1
You will see the sky,
I will see fresh soil on your outer soles.
We would have to burn our clothes inside the furnace.
If we make it safely,
If the blue caps are not on our doorsteps,
Waiting with their greetings.
 
If they do, please keep silence
That we did walk along the tramcar railways.
It’s the first condition for a felony
Or schizophrenia.
From the wall Iron Felix2 will cast smiles
Through his portrait.
This will go on forever,
This will be a very fair-minded
 
Punishment for us,
For us strolling along the tramcar railways.
A fair-minded punishment
For strolling along the tramcar railways.
They will kill us
For walking on the tramcar railways.
They will kill us
That you and I were walking on the tramcar railways.
 

• 1. wooden crossties in States
• 2. Felix Dzerzhinsky, nicknamed 'Iron Felix', was a Bolshevik revolutionary and official. He led the first two Soviet state-security organizations, the Cheka and the OGPU, establishing a secret police for the post-revolutionary Soviet regime.

A Cat Is Melting In Flames...

A cat is melting in flames
It is able to scream
A human being is able to keep silence within
a mute point of bitterness is coming out
 

Hey, You’d Better Finish Us Off

Hey, you’d better finish us off
Take us all to the stained smudgy wall
Lug us down to the Kremlin’s dark vault
Teach us all the paternal instructions
Read out loud the fair verdict of yours
You’d dispose of us all by sunrise
You’d append a blue seal to the brief
Teach us breathing by stomach right now
Make a curative, health-giving pyre
Throw there all the insane dreams of us
The Octobrists’1 sly roundelay will
Paint the empty fields in vivid hues
Rip our mouths so that they’ll reach our ears
Having wrapped our eyes with a red rag
Having chopped off what’s been pressed to breast
Not forgetting to cover the tracks
Make us settle in a large loony bin
Sign a warrant accusing of crimes
Make us banned from the Mausoleum now
So that we can’t go voting at all
So that History’d brisk up its pace
For our Communism’s run-up to start
Hey, you’d better finish us off
 

• 1. Octobrists are 7-9 years old kids being members of the eponymous children's patriotic organisation established under the auspices of commies

Form’s Deforming Badly The Elastic Rubber Nodule Of Fatigue

Form’s deforming badly the elastic rubber nodule of fatigue
Sitting on the windowsill, the tomcat wipes all off swinging its tail
Having got a fine word of command we will wake up, brace up, and leave
Our black clothes oblige to go dancing our weird dances on bonfires
It’s called a neglected city, the depleted limit of supplies
the ticket that’s expired
 

He had hastened–Then he wound up

He had hastened–
Then he wound up.
He had given up–
Then he drowned.
He looked round–
No one’s there.
 

Heigh-ho, You The Limpid Sun Of Mine!

Heigh-ho, you the limpid sun of mine!
Ember, cinder, ash
Wake me up right at midnight
An old maid with no trumps at all
There stands a maple with clotheslines roped
A palm that’s self-managing
Marks the field in squares
Puts nil in a book
Maple is a drum
Naked, it’ll endure
Wheeling out its voice
“Came what mightn’t” that’s what the sky displayed
As November it winter chose
 

Wasteland – Waste Rags Vibrant Smoke

Wasteland – waste rags vibrant smoke
Blue stain – grizzle mere dirt
Envy – a two-page prose piece
Walking blindly on the road
Wooden thingy with eight strings
He who fingers it’s a prick
Downpour – horseflesh – reservoir
An unpainful acheless jab
Aspen stake into the sand
They have healed the empty space
They have got the rivulet darned
They have sutured its shore fronts
Sleeting – pulping just the rain
Watering an empty sheet
Pulling fibres all apart
At the skyline Whalefish goes
Working his long way back home
Candles – matches – tiny lights…
 

Screwed Off–Stirred Up–Whirled In A Glass...

Screwed off–stirred up–whirled in a glass
Dispelled–dispersed like green smoke
Bottomless–homeless–hapless
Into the hellhole through smoke and pain
Having got unhinged, the wounds opened
To the sky, under the ground with living eyes
Started moving with an under-the-wheel joggle
The joggle is chopper-like
Not even a bone will be left under the sun of July
The cards won’t be spread to tell whether it’s love or not
An eternal rain
A small red particle
On a bluish black background
On a sharp edge
Without a sound, without a step, without a sigh
Having clung to the wire of childish hatred
Onto the blade of public opinion
Onto the spike of unriddled dreams
You’re going to the bottom, but how’s that for going through the ice?
Through the thick intercalary February
Through October smoke
On the ice in the skates of drunken optimism
You’ll fall through! –Ah, ain’t a fuck!..
You’ll only catch a cold
And warm yourself at a campfire made using papers
Ruled, covered in scrawls–an auto-da-fé
An auto-da-fé under the sun of July
Through a magnifying glass
Of our best, our “veriest”
Chilly truisms
There’s nothing to cloak the naked pain with
There’s nothing to tether to–enjoy–it’s liberty!
No future–here and now
Cells with shaven-headed fellows–wards–they’ll be later
Now it’s happiness
↓
∞
 

My Filth Is So Unfathomable...

My filth is so unfathomable and so innocent
Tell me, what’s on the telly today
And if you watch the telly–you’ll turn into a goat
Suck it up to the best of your ability
Having got your horns worn out you’ll be given some cabbage
And now dig the ground with a hoof–it’s just so tempting to love
It’s evil–you may fall in love with a goat when waters are out
oozing as murky blood from the fingers cut by strings
The Sea Witch made legs out of the Little Mermaid’s fishtail
Willing to help, she proved to be a wicked witch
Isn’t this for the entire life–ask an occasional night quack
What’s this? The alarm clock rings on time
It’s midnight, but the hands are apart–they can’t get together any way
Rustling, rising up to the neck there’s a heap of paper scraps
Fair copies, not interlined, not slantwise
superscribed in red pencil
Get the whole in advance–isn’t it a good earnest?
The bird of paradise with fried potatoes
Wings are yours–in exchange for horns.
 

The Global Flood

Versions: #2
Only The Global Flood will give us respite
Only the reality of fear will aid us
The surrogate-soul is our salvation
If we don’t remember Him – He will forget us too
 
Our tears, they fall upon the spires of stones
An act of love in a large cold bathhouse,
Only the wind blew into the sleeves and shapkas
 
Alone, a home, that is so very silent within
An insane world that is getting even worse
 
The eternal pathway from the brim, and no further
This weary dread, saying goodbye with tears
 
It is so easy for this island to drown in the sea
Most assuredly, when I am left unsatisfied
 
More simply said, when I am left alone...
 

We Are Getting Off With Our Faces Clean...

_____________________A.B.____
We are getting off with our faces clean
In the middle of the battle of brick twitches
Night’s accompanied by the burning curtains
Dreaming’s under the mask of melted wax
There’s a tucked tail in coppiced coppices
Bled white by the snide, sneaky memory
Acquiescent stars that are shining bright
With their battered boots on stones they step
And with shabby soles – on the metal rails
With a feline paw in the bootleg they’re
At a narrow pace claws kept sheathed inside
Going through the yard right along the fence
Altogether seeking a shaky plank
The ice melted is vaporizing now
To fall down on the lake tomorrow noon
I’d wash my face with it but there’s no time
I would drink it but I’m not thirsty now
I would shelter the kids from cold with it
Having failed to drown off the water’s edge
Crystal ice – that’s a too expensive thing
A rucksack full of blueish cubes to fasten
Put on twine and thenceforth – on conscience’ neck
 
Leningrad, September 1987
Here I took umbrage at Bashlachev
 

Fear the chip of verity

Fear the chip of verity to send away from void1
Smoke that’s driven by litter2 towards the dwelling place
Pain of iron labour3 unprotected and alive
Death by solitariness that holds the world within
The ice-covered lenses of the all-distorting goggles
To outspread a cobweb just for haltering all gnats
By the muzzle of yellow wolves’ stares to abut the chest
Of those who put hands down, as if they were in the air
To shoot down the offcast, those who gave away their all
Feed those who are semi-ruined into a 5-ton press
Kick away the crutches from those who are semi-crippled
Put the semi-mangled beneath the crawler belt at once
It will stop just for a while – to pat and even sigh
Raptly and maternally shrugging shoulders, though
Mannerly and tactfully will ask about health
Putting a soft pillow right in place - under the head
Cat’s crooned to a mousekin a love song about romance
 

• 1. The original verse lacks punctuation signs that gives it a kind of special charm and ambiguity. I tried to reproduce this in the translation so that English-speaking readers could make their own investigation on what was meant in each line
• 2. In Russian, word order can be almost free, so the beginning of the line could be translated as 'Smoke that’s driving litter', besides.
• 3. 'Схватка' can also mean 'a fight' in Russsian

It’s Stars Falling Down From The Sky

It’s stars falling down from the sky
As fag ends from the upper floors.
 

Souls Are Dizzy In Their Repentance

Souls are dizzy in their repentance
Irresolvableness with no movements
Movelessness having no solutions
Non-admission with no affecting
Non-reaction up to exclusion
The unnaturalness of black phobias
The light-mindedness of smashed windows
Light-eyed gods grow deaf little by little
Tainting with horizontal dances
Getting covered with steely scabies
They will stand as old knights in museums
Under chain mails, and very gently
Beneath marble they’ll tick a long while
Resignation along with wellholes
Hypogeums and felo de se
Rivers get cold and nights fade out
There will be two steps on someone’s tarmac
To the land of crushed revelations
To the house where’s no after, nor jointly
To benign hell and churchless heaven
 

Screwed Into The Earth The Rusty Staining Sun

Screwed into the earth the rusty staining sun
Pins the chip of the horizon’s distant rim
Tepid1 snow is oozing through the strainer down
Washing off the gilding from the crispy ribs
Snow-white linen canvas lies on grey planed boards
Sky-blue clay is covering the pair of steps
To the shining stars we‘ll be girl-friends or broads
Once we’re weaned off all the earthy practices
Owls are hiding at the grey of dawns, as termed
Horses’ wings are shining with a flamy light
It looks like all things will soon be overturned
We’ll use acres normally for gauging height
Telegraph poles will appear, towering
Telephone wires will then slowly crawl at once
And all tramps will find, in spite of tiredness,
Their way to the last pole – to the broken one
There’s a finish word that gives a sign to spurt
Near the pole, there is a place for all the tramps
There’s, above the pole, a prophesying bird
And behind it – there are hard-burnt stones and shambles…
 

• 1. Accordingly to the other variant of the original text, 'Melting' may take place here

On The Shore Of Vague Pain

On the shore of vague pain
The teeth are ringing tocsin at the rim of a faceted table glass
The spring of a tense chain is bending over -
Grinding against the corner – the collar is sinking into the body
Of an unwary three-legged cur – the master’s close,
It’s impossible to bite his elbow
The stray pup rebounds towards the wall.
You are crawling away crouched with the nervous guffaw of rusty steel
You cannot howl
Neither can you forget the incantation
Words scatter hastily like dreams
From a phone call
As-if the morning is a train going uphill
The heartbeat rate is slow
The day is tiptoeing in holey socks in the frosty stairwell
The fingers, having become distracted overnight, are firing at the sky,
Are clutching on the shirt’s neckband, where the copper cross is
Over the thin wall, there are the fire and dust of dry roads
A heap of excersise-book sheets is ready to kindle
The sun is hooting with its sticky face on the picture from
A children’s book about love that could not be mauled by words
And calms down under the trickles of your blood
It is running under my door
And whispering below its breath – I am alive
And I’ve come to warn – your trial is going
In a closed hall – in an open field
Stand up – lie down, face on the wet ground
Listen – close your ears with hands
Keep silence – burst into a rogue song and tears
Sit down – stand up and go away.
 
Under the sentence, as a red snake,
There’s your Name lying down into a corner
The shivering puppy’s getting asleep
On the knees of the master’s hoary Mother
Pardon. Thanks. We’ll live.
 

Will You Be A Bright Ray

Will you be a bright ray,
that’s born in a shade,
Or the shade which has born the ray?
Will you be a blue rain,
that fell on the snow,
Or a rain cloud, hey?
Will you be a tough link
of a golden chain,
Or a hammer that forges it?
Well, will you be a far path’s terrain,
Or a person who follows it?
Being a feather of eagle’s wing,
or the bird’s very self?
Being a drop in a bottle of gin,
or its dry bottom’s swell?
 

There Was A Fine Icon Painted

There was a fine icon painted – and in the rain forgotten
Virgin Maria’s eyes fainted, got washed away by water
Paints drizzled down as tears – it was the sky that blubbered
Men took refuge under ceilings – they didn’t know about that
Only the skies were sullen, turning the air bluer
Broke out a tempest, sudden…
Sheep jostled, as if gluey
Lightnings struck in the windows, strong winds blew off the roofings
Dogs at the doors sat whingeing, in barns mice raged as like true fiends
Children held mothers’ dresses, grandfathers started crossing
Kneeling at their places, prayed to their icons’ glosses…
 
Sunny then came the morning, wet dogs were tiredly woofing
People came out, yawning, started to mend the roofings
And quite aside, near the doorsill were lying the shreds of canvas
People’d forgotten God’s will, they all were shrugging manwise…
 

The Water'll Come

Versions: #2
The water’ll come
 
The water’ll come
The water’ll come
 
That’s how it should be
 
Why shouldn’t boneheads live
Why’d in the morning they grieve
Pain on the throttle
And to applaud on the cheeks
Salt on a corn1
To swim in snow waist-deep
A pity – not
Fight wall-to-wall
Anglewise, edgewise
Back ‘gainst the wall
Stood in a nook with a nail
Scribbling swearwords
 
Call-and-response if got lumps – would be a gong
There was wind-clap ‘neath the table – would be a bed
 
I’ll be asleep.
 
The water’ll come
 
Have bled the holidays – were washed in the same water
Pour the dry soap in ‘nother glass
The water’ll come
 
The water’ll come
 
That water is full of beads – there’re rainbow bridges over it
Why shouldn’t boneheads wait – both hiems and summer of the same colour
Both hiems and summer of the same colour
And wool will grow on the wall when the spring comes again
And how’s that
 
All books are without backs
All fish is without bones
The water’ll come
 
The water’ll come
Why not to live
 
To break the head on the run – to fly on swaddling wings made of gause
To mould new friends out of snow and sell each one for a rouble
To look for needles in haystacks
A snake-needle will be found in the hay
 
A needle-snake, yeah
The hay does not dry in my carroty head
The clay does not die in my torn and darned sack
The hay does not dry in my carroty head
The dale won’t catch fire on the opposite bank
The water’ll come
The water’ll come
I’ll be asleep
The water’ll come.
 

• 1. a callus

Riga Song

Versions: #3
And you do throw your words right into my ice hole,
You do throw your daggers at my door panel,
Throw your peas against my walling by the handful,
Throw your seeds in the contaminated ground.
 
There are the shreds of pennoncels on the rampike.
There are the snippings of rope’s ends on the smashed lanterns.
There are dim glasses on the decolourized keekers.
There are white stones on the frostbitten ground.
 
Throw your seed pearls before the swine upturned snout.
Throw the unreal purses to the thoroughfare.
Throw coins into the variegated cloth caps.
And your songs – to the great yawning abysm.
 
There are the stale bread and the roaches in my corner.
There are the colour paints and voice in my hellhole.
And in my blood there sand and mud are bein’ blended,
The mattress’ got the hands that had been beforehand.
 
And in the street the pits for trees are being burrowed,
The little ones are catapulting the street cats,
The cats are crying at the top of their throats,
The cats are falling into the empty wellholes.
 
And you do throw your words right into my ice hole,
You do throw your daggers at my door panel,
Throw your peas against my walling by the handful.
 

For' Rainy Day

Versions: #2
There’s a faint dance of butter fingers* and cock-eyes for’ rainy day.
The second fell, the fourth’s been gaoled, has been lynched the poor eighth.
Right to the cables from ‘neath the wheels, and to three letters** from ‘neath asphalt
In still waters madcaps drown themselves
In a cold sweat - the ripples radiate
 
An iron horse. The colour’s drab. The carven caterpillars lined.
The ride’s designed for tenderfeet - the horses running circle-wise,
And the wind-up kaleidoscope is rattling its distorting mirrors.
The wheel’s whirling speed accelerates,
And to the sound of marches heads are off.
 
The colored shawl’s been guttled by moth. The cards in hand are three and seven.
Whisking flies off with his tail the bull climbs up being heavy-laden.
The brows’ billiard balls have split in halves from impact rolling over
The both sides and to the corners of
The open spaces of the latitudes.
 
And in the broken showcases are the tatters of attires,
‘Neath the runners of the sleigh there’s someone’s flesh that’s volatile.
Poll*** behind the counter’s taking out of a beanie tickets for the tram
Goin’ to the nearest bridge,
And for the chopper, door and windowless.
In still waters madcaps drown themselves,
The wheel’s whirling speed accelerates.