the beauty is only in being different part1

Robert Anna Olden
(Dennis S. Borisov)









THE BEAUTY IS ONLY
IN BEING DIFFERENT



For Flora





selected poems 1985-2008



copyright;2008byRobertAnnaOlden

The book contains the poems from the books


Valeri Highson
(1985-1992)

Minikin Decent Pony
(1992-1996)

Requiem For Valeri Highson
(1996-1999)

Waiting For The Black Hole
(1997)

The Beauty Is Only In Being Different
(1998)

Macroverses
(1994-1999)

Alien Fire
(2000-2001)

The Spring, The Night Queen
(2002-2003)

Scarlet Ribbon Of V.
(2004-2008)

From the book
Valeri Highson



death of the city hide-and-seek
the scull the great musician number naught
titanic’s perishing night angst
the poet’s sorrow self-control
see you in hell tubes in my head
the goblin reservation dame doesn’t dry
the lost world lunar gletschers’ wind
they dreamt the notre dame this is not a love
a thing of thomas hood morning spleen
dedicated to no-one if
rabbit, run divide hundred by hundred
nihil sum don’t let me die
the needle hies empty set
la peau de chagrin a snail on a slope
yesterday man to talk with you
options start back from me
dreamvendor preposterous word ‘music’
brakes last plaything
before one’s forty they’ll die
snows of yesteryear cruel starlight
metempsychosis pessimistic chanson
valeri highson valeri highson



Death Of The City



There lived a man in the world
And that man went out to a sea
And he looked around at that sea
And he said very-very quietly,
‘I don’t really want this city
To live in this world for long’.
Scarcely he went and said that
Till there falled to the earth from heaven
Dissecting with bright blue light
The dark of abysmal night
Cubospherical asteroid.
Asteroid falled in the city
And made it crushed soft-boiled.
Outflowed the asteroid alongst
The peopless streots . . .
The city went snap and went phut,
It flew apart into splinters!
That city it was no long.
The man he went home.











The Scull The Great



The Scull the Great, our gerent, and the Muzzle,
Abode of Evil Ones, all made me puzzled
By knocking on my door:

‘Rise up, you psycho, you abnormal bone-
head, you must know the Equatorial Stone
Rules us no longer!’

It turned me angry, angered, more,
And all I was spilt on the floor,
I snatched square ananas and I
Threw it directly into Muzzle’s eye.

And while the Muzzle through her eye was raking,
And while their crowd all my door was breaking,
It was long since I to the south flew,

The place where ruled the Equatorial Stone,
My friend the Great and very full of groan,
He for the Scull the Great the fiercest of foes.










Titanic’s Perishing



There swam upon the sea a simile with bread,
The waves were meaninglessly eating the woodfuel,
Women and men were hanging on red pulleys,
And in a wineglass was a watering empty owl.

A knock upon pajamas, and a crutch on log.
The jam and pozzy dripped down one’s back.
I turned around and there were three jazzmen,
The very best, but quite up to a point;
I felt desire to fling a shadow on a wall,
To fling a hat to her and know my pride.

Revenge a-la Allemange: to smell the billy-goats
And throw the pilaw
Out with right underfoot the old wainboats.















The Poet’s Sorrow



There are fogs in London,
Tower in Paris,
Toughest tits in Africa
(And the heat all round!)

What will I do about it?
What a wacky mishap!
It’s dampy in Atlantis,
The grass is on the Moon . . .

I’m writing in my notepad:
‘Well, such is just the picture:
All in all — it comes out —
There’s no place to live on Earth’.
















See You In Hell



She walked on the ice in wine-colored skates on,
And I walked on snow in greenish socks on.
She was in a hat on, with feathers in row.
I was — so it seemed to — Hercules Poirot!

She slipped like they do in old movie of sort . . .
The icerink staved in and she went to the bot . . .
The bubbles bobbed up, and like tommyrot
These words I heard swell: ‘Ciao, see you in hell’.





















The Goblin Reservation



We all are ancient stony monsters,
Our faces all are made of void.
We flung all open doors and shutters:
How clean! ideal! spheroid!

How sweetly all our hands are smelling
When we lay kisses on the glass;
We think that’s mirages up-swelling
And woman’s warmth. Alas! Alas!

Because as soon as our eyes open wider
All becomes clearer to our sight:
And that in this so dirty world we ride her
We’ll never find a dirtier beast to fight

Than our reflection in the heaven
And all our shadows on the ground;
The Dove has lost the battle to the Raven,
And the world’s future is dark bird unbound . . .

So why cry? Let us drink our weight a-saving:
We all are bound to sink aboard this ship as one.








The Lost World



Oh I do love the lost world of ours:
It is just like this one, but it does
Hide the hugest of mystery islands
Where night is as dark as day was.

Oh I do love this lost world of ours:
In it, none will ever find out
Where we’d hidden, though it’s so simple —
We were of clay, and of water now.

And in honour of this sweet loss
Our cuisine will prepare us pirs.
I’m no more, doesn’t matter, I’m just a sound:
I do love the lost world of ours.
















They Dreamt The Notre Dame



They dreamt the Notre Dame: their judgment fell on this.
Their eyes lit up with strangest fiery whiz.
They fixed: the end! they fixed: ‘tis time to gripe!
And they let things go hang on human tribe:
They dreamt the Notre Dame.

They went to look for her among the alien amies,
They went to look for her, and wider grew the freeze
Of their strange intercourses and untimely deaths.

Their perished simply: having but forgot the chasm
Between their dream and their wake, and they got no wreaths:
They dreamt the Notre Dame.

















A Thing Of Thomas Hood



His eyes go blinder, he’s seeing . . .
The bad dog’s barking.
Who’s hating him so for his being?
What soon will he be after harking?

He’s crying, remembering that . . .
And where was it that I saw him?
You’re talking to me with your mouth full and shut,
You’re talking nought.
To leave him alone
I so very much deplore him.

Soon the old man will be nothing seeing.
The good cat’s thawing.
Nobody will ever be knowing
The goal he will soon be marking,
Nobody will ever . . .
Nobody will ever.

The snows collapse. He’s alone with no coat against weather.










Dedicated To No-One



I owned you once, I owned you nicely,
I owned you not the only once,
But know: you cannot meet love twicely,
Oh song of happiness, not us.

Your soul in vain its wings were beating:
We were together, now we’re two.
I know: meeting or not meeting,
We’ll use the words to hide into,

We’ll live to use the time for losing,
To count the stars upon the floor,
We hold wet firestone, which is oozing
Into the ash for ever more . . .

It maybe heart’s just water bottle,
Hope dust, face hole. And it may feel
The squirrel’ dead, the candle throttled,
And rusted squirrel’s Ferris Wheel.











Rabbit, Run



Rabbit, oh tell me, where are you?
Radio link is surd.
Warmed up are our bodies
Only if words are heard.

Night is so full of mare,
Foes surround a man.
Rabbit, I’m on the air
Again. Run if you can.

I don’t believe a moment
That I can be in time.
Miming the beast, at midnight
To you I make double-time.

If you believe me, rabbit,
If you can wait for me,
Wait, for I run from a habit
For mare, so afraid to be

Late . . . It will come so starry,
Foes will have our numb-
Ers. It’s not late, don’t worry.
You hear me? Rabbit, run.






Nihil Sum



I’m still a life, but hours make me drier,
Like drier gets a dragonfly when it dies.
I’m naked, and the ground is wet and nigher,
And lying on the ground are my eyes.

And in hideous dreams to flee I was bound . . .
I recall them not, never kept their count.

I’m still a breath, but air is sweet so strangely,
Like sweet is sleep of one who sleeps for good.
I’m nothing now, but it won’t save me from hell’s changelings,
For I am not a human being, bad or good.

And in weird dreams to love I was bound . . .
I recall dreams not, never kept their count.















The Needle Hies



Beautiful girlie, whose likes are petted.
There, reached out, butterfly is netted.
But this piece of flesh not for long lies:
Presses the time, the needle hies.

Beautiful lassie, lips like pink roses.
Warm look of eyes no threat poses.
But this piece of flesh not for long lies:
Presses the time, the needle hies.

Beautiful woman, fine arms, no wounds.
Speaks out loud. Sweet are these sounds.
But this piece of flesh not for long lies:
Presses the time, the needle hies.

All these are terribly beautiful people.
Svelte are their dorsa, mild is their nipple.
But this piece of flesh not for long lies:
Presses the time, the needle hies.











La Peau De Chagrin



Let’s sit joint to joint,
Love each other we will.
No way from still point,
No escape from the wheel.

Whole hour joint to joint,
Whole year a kin.
Still crawl the fingers
Across my skin.

Let’s sit joint to joint,
Love each other we will.
There’s no other chansoint,
No escape from the wheel.

You are my onus,
I am yours, again.
Still crawls the tempus,
La peau de chagrin.

I embrace, it hurts, chilly,
Tear apart, the same, tut.
Smile willy-nilly,
Well yes, no, cut.

Let’s sit joint to joint,
Love each other we will.
No way from still point,
No escape from the wheel.

Yesterday Man



Now we’re never going to marry,
Now that we’ve doubled back.
I now have one dream to carry:
We’re like fish out wet lock.

We did outgape each other . . .
Hence we’ll now have a hole,
And to turn again, no bother,
Loyal yesterday helps all.

Only yesterday remembers
Not the words we said today.
Thoughts suspended in the ambers,
We resemble donkeys, nay?

Yesterday Man, Yesterday Man,
What eves are for, help me grasp, amen,
What these days are for, what’s the goal of night.
Help me, Yesterday, if you can or might.
Help me find her, no knowing what for, it falls,
Faceless man on the corner of all my walls.

Manifest on a window of one of homes,
Shoot along and leave only ‘it’s high time’.
I will find her in perished dreams’ twilight domes
And, Yesterday Man, say Merci, I chime.




Options



I will lay down my own cards.
Each one shall the way suggest.
We solemnize a barter:
You to me body,
I to you este.

And no non-contents,
And no options:
Ca va sans dire.

Life is TIR.

The winner takes you:
The victim of tears’ sport, burnest,
Shed not in earnest.

Let me touch you lips, thou,
Let me repeat once again:
Life is TIR,
Ca va sans dire . . .

. . . But I’ll give him a sweetener,
And all my bullets will enter the tenner.

The winner will take you.





Dreamvendor



To vend my dreams is my humble business.
There’s nothing else in my mixer.
I remember who I was in my passed isness,
But this is a big elixir.

I remember that I was a vegetable vendor,
But no-one believes that except the knives.
And the road home is unkempt with shavegrass,
And unshaved with stubble are my hundred lives.

To vend my dreams is my only business,
Only what I dream is a big elixir.
I don’t remember my darn passed isness,
Moreover, I’m nix, sir.
















Brakes



Dust in heaps on parquet ages,
Also do trigonous eyes.
Kids are hopping cross the page, as
To catch up the brakes each tries.

Cross the clay the brakes crawl preening,
Blood is hopping like the falls,
Kids go down in plasticine, in
Stickly drips down love and galls.

Blood in pools on parquet ages . . .
Eye and eye on table stakes . . .
Kids they hang themselves like sages:
Failed to catch upon the brakes.
















Before One’s Forty



We wind the music with our hands which feel so numb,
You’re asking me to, tousling with my thumb.
But I do not need words, the nods will do.
It’s all a rush for me. I do love you.

We’re visited by friends with oblong nails,
For th’ third day on we’re drinking port cocktails,
And antechamber’s floor is so awash with squeaker,
That no-one can go in! or, as once spoke one speaker,

‘No pass or run!’ — and evil won’t come here,
‘No pass or run!’ — I shout around, sincere,
But if you want to take me to small pieces,
Me and my crucifix, then take and tear soul’s nylon-6,

To pry, pry out to death a sweet fur-coated heart
And put inside curved mirrors. You are smart,
So know: all life is being shown on the merzes,
And ‘all is real here’ was your lie apart.

Yesterday lives by its own nightly secret,
And next day never is for evermore,
For every day is yet the same old two-day. Thick red,
You won’t get jam-tomorrow, ever. Co-
Ngratulations, girl: Time’s just a drunken bawd,
She sees all through, her eyes with mica cawed.

Let’s fly to Earth for music to announce,
‘Don’t pester me, for I’m again not yours’.
You gambled me away with someone for an ounce,
So voila! — he’ll get me as a curse.

Lies in a bed somebody so ungainly,
With him a woman of the strangest type.
‘She can be varied’, one can hear him plainly.
Your window’s burning. I just want to dummy hype.

The call is ringing, but the telephone’s on Mars,
And every breath in makes me not myself:
Guignol impersonates me in a porny farce,
I’ll forfeit for this role my head of elf.

I have to live my life only till final blow,
To love my love till all my loving ends.
I’m all abroad in all this constant flow,
I have to stand again and start again.

But windows darken and the telephone’s disconnected,
You seek your bed, whom for, not known at all,
Unseen is waterside, air is with oars dissected,
My foe is deafened now, and now he’s off the wall.

My foe’s not foe, he’s a canard from papers,
His soul’s his soul’s ideal perfect pair,
Pupils dilated, but the light there tapers,
We smoke in silence, tousling with the air.

What did I take the world for from your palm?
What did I hold on to when I was so much armed?
What was I punished for so well before the hunt?
What good it did I asked my brain be burnt?

I’m on this Earth, my home is so much higher,
And we are sitting, tousling, love you do,
And rain goes down, and rattles hail like fire.
It’s all a rush for me, I do love you.

But it’s a song for the unhealthy lovers,
And in such songs the motives don’t occur,
It’s full of blind ones, of the blinded and the blinders.
Photo went wrong: such rusty tripods err,

I wound my camera like wound are music boxes,
But you would never show me, show your eyes,
And bhang! I got it all: I, fool, dated a dope fiend,
And poplar wool burned down from my cold tear from skies.

Oh, just as well. I’m going from home to home,
And, nothing doing, won’t e’er come back.
Now then, farewell, though we’re not really known
Between ourselves, you, too, will soon lose track
Of ones you’ll sleep with, ones forever hidden.
Farewell then, Alice Pleasance Liddell.

You may stalemate the music just to listen
Two hundred twenty thousand volts screech.
A single look, and souls around are eaten,
Instead of pugs you air your pigmy Colts upon the beach.

So I ring out the room where you were living
With numerous friends, where light often went out;
The color of your lips they in the darks were leaving,
So I will take it, and the hush will sprout,
The song’s remains my rictus will be claiming
Somewhat obliquely, prone, and, tousling in my hand
Of no-one a cactus so much seemingly unmaiming,
I’ll say: all’s not a rush for me. I don’t love you, my friend.

This illness can be cured by simple parting.
Let’s pay the tribute to ourselves by standing up and starting
Also up. It sounds so unexpectedly hee-haw,
When in smooth gesture I raise up my right
Arm, and there are no fingers on it. Such a sleight
Was taught to me so long long long ago,
That I effuse a bittern’s scream from screens os city,
Playing blind-man’s-buff, while women have agaith
No arms, no thighs, no faces, only beards, such a pity,
Like in an ancient mortal movie faded out to death and rot.

And whether you are there or you are not,
It’s all the same for me.

I don’t love you, my friend.






















Snows Of Yesteryear



Softly slosh at sides of boat
Snows of yesteryear.
I with oars, you’th petticoat,
We run on from here.

Into autumn riverside
Carries chilled homes’ mind.
Nineteen slash twenty eight.
Prison is behind.

We keep mum, and silence means
We have naught to say.
Hear the shots? Manhunt begins.
Run instead of stay.

You don’t really know me,
I likewise don’t you.
‘Coupled with’, you know it,
Oft is sans ‘love you’.

Under water, sponges, corals . . .
Stupid human being . . .
Why d’you pout? About our morals?
Run we do, agreeing.

Softly slosh at sides of boat
Snows of yesterdreaming.



Metempsychosis



Of ones who were with me, I
Remember only you.
You’ve stood behind, such wee eye,
‘Who am I?’ do ask you.
But I turn to receive you,
Face you, without ado.
In one of apparitions
Of my past parturitions,
Zap-zap, I did conceive you,
Your dad, without ado.
But I had time to issue
One hundred forty times
Since then, to change your tissue
You managed; now we’re mimes.
And in the void, elastic,
I see a circle, white,
And in it, you, oh you alone,
But somehow all in black;
‘You were my friend fantastic’,
You say, ‘My friend all right,
But I descend to bot like stone,
Run wild with turf my back.
But I reach out to thou, ‘nd
To help me thou canst’.
The words remain the sound,
And deaf the night remainst,
But always, under Luna
Or during bright of Day,
I wait for you from all ways
And credo you will come,
Will find my fire, some
Big light in windowed hall
And shadows on the wall,
Oh do take me, I pray:
Not’s on the cards for sooners
To meet, and not sans why,
For ne’er in any hallway
I’ll know you’re friend of mine,
For we became each other
One hundred forty years
Ago, and Time is Father
Who’s Round, and glad to tears
I am to Time: He’ll help us
Recall and help forget,
But I — when was it? — went and failed
Your dear traits
To sense, and here’s no helpers,
I failed to save
The name you get.
















Valeri Highson



Active is her umbrellas’ color,
Her legging-it in raving skirt,
For tomcats is her stairways’ valor,
Her bows and forget-me-nots.

She’s more alive than foam of days
In folly of my memory’s ways.

When all our sails will tear apart,
When we’ll all drown and go to blue,
The crystal tress scythe of the skies
Remind will us of only her.

She’s more alive than flame of flames
In folly of my memory’s sways.

Active’s the color of her pants,
Her strife with scene of reason’s crime,
Her Lieds about the elephants,
And tender are her numbers prime.

She’s more alive . . . whose whisper says,
Oh folly of my memory’s ways?







Hide-And-Seek



We were all taught the game of hide-and-seek,
And only hide-and-seek, as days were laid.
We were all taught that even the Sun,
The Sun can give only shade.
We were all taught the game of hide-and-seek,
And I know of no other dole,
But I’m pretty browned off with guidancy
Of my worldview by a black hole.
Ergo, it’s time for departure,
And I’m going to make this move,
And I will have a dwelling under the Sun,
Alone, but for whole year’s love,
But if we were near, or together,
Then you, too, could, would be able
To go there, where one’s fingers
Aren’t cut with telephone cables.

D’ye know of the fact that I
Saw you in a dream one fall?
D’ye know of the fact that I
Have your portrait upon my wall?
D’ye know of the fact that I
Know of you for long?
D’ye know of the fact that I
Saw you in a film, so strong?

I so adore
Of this our lost
Life the last world, o stranger.
If you want to score
Just know: I’m a bull,
And welcome to shooting-ranger.
And if I only were able
I’d cater for you the warm,
But I cannot! I cannot! I cannot!
What a prater I am.





























Musician Number Naught



He wants some music: sits down at the piano to pound,
But savage rasp from under digitals flies out.
And he is deaf to difference: sound is sound.
He’s dead. You won’t remelt him, lout.

Becoming bored, he calls his pals to rug:
Expends his time in keeping up the ball
Or corrugates his forehead, gaper thug
Dumbfounded with the judge of court withal.

Pals having left him, there’s the only one who stains:
She’s twenty five, and all’s already clear;
Her love obscure and darkly still remains,
And she’s admitting to it with a slear,

And day in day out, like talk to a brick pain,
The eyes grow wider, wider, wider still,
And fingers look for pulse but cannot find the vein,
And immobile is t-storm past the sill.

Here he decides to lay a solitaire;
She palms and she will help with plush of skin;
They both lie down. Postchaise flies through the air
Headlong to precipice . . . So very much akin.

Becoming tired of playing, he starts a singsong quietly,
But rasping on its own from under digitals prowls out.
Protuberant eyes: he’s only able to rhonchus violently.
He’s dead. You won’t remelt him, lout.

Night Angst



I CANNOT DO A THING ABOUT IT
I DO NOT WANT TO THINK ABOUT IT
I SEE NO DIFFERENCE WHAT HAPPENS TO ME
I AM INFINITELY TERRIBLY FRIGHTENED

YOU FAILED TO CRY OR GO ON A BENDER
YOU DIDN’T MANAGE TO PUT AN ENDER
WE SEE NO DIFFERENCE WHAT HAPPENS TO US
WE ARE INFINITELY TERRIBLY FRIGHTENED

THE FIFTH DAY ON YOU SLEEP LIKE AN ANGEL
WHAT’S LEFT TO ME IS TO PRY HEART OUT
I CANNOT DO A THING ABOUT IT
I AM UNABLE TO THINK ABOUT IT
















Self-Control



Past the old ruins that stand out like towers,
In a gray coat, a-bulging its pouch,
I keep on walking, and each one who cowers
There in those wrecks, is a-coughing ouch-ouch.

Wickedest wisps of smoke multicolored
I squeeze like mad in my toughest of fists.
Flattened-out faces do zoom past me dolored
And consolidate like great wall in far mists.

I’d gladly murder egregiously greeny
Hill made of blossoming grasses and plants.
These strange downslopes damage the scenery,
So down with them, my true logic demands.

Waves that are falling the cold water strokes,
And I at last give the freedom to smokes.













Tubes In My Head



And for forty four long-long years,
For forty four long-long years
Stood, one another versus,
We, you and I, at doors-rears,
At doors-rears to rooms of ours,
The realm we ruled undercovers,
Until the scream broke out,
Until we still were lovers.

And walls with my shout were beaten,
Wallpaper my shout tore out,
All books from a pang through windows
Darted — and fucked was grass!
The shout contorted me wholly:
The cowboys from screens do shout:
It’s just the tubes blew out,
Tubes in my head, alas.

The ends of these tubes stuck out
As eyes from the face of a monster,
Whom, as they once spoke out,
My family made me twin:
The columns of icy water
For those forty four, o funster,
Flew into displays, o daughter,
Of your eyes. The shout wasn’t min.

And walls with your shout were beaten,
Wallpaper your shout tore out,
All tiles from a pang through windows
Darted — and fucked was grass!
The shout contorted you wholly:
Faults you can’t live without:
It’s just the tubes broke out,
Tubes in my head, alas.

With together stuck lips of your mouth
And the brain turned into the ice tongue,
With broken out display cases
Of your formerly brown eyes
You left to seduce the suckers
For broken out windows of morgue,
Having let go, as the end and take-leave,
All along the rooms-rears the gas.

I had time to make only three steps —
Water still crushed the walls of reason —
Then suddenly came the ultimate,
Ultimate ‘fucked was grass’:
My brain flew apart into smithereens,
My world didn’t stomach the treason,
And all at once tubes broke out,
Tubes in my head, alas.












Dame Doesn’t Dry



Dame doesn’t dry, she is disconsolately weeping,
Weeping as though the pressure burst her eyes.
You cleave the eggshell, and into the window, sweeping:
Her teardrop on your hand not dries.

Dame doesn’t cry, dame’s man, a daredevil,
And dear men hide tears in their fists.
Woman won’t weeep: o bravo, mighty weevil!
It’s only that the stars still glister on my mitts . . .





















Lunar Gletschers’ Wind



I will murder you, my lunar, ice-infested wind.
Interesting question: who raised up and nurtured you?
You escaped and everywhere freezes every child,
Frozen parents mourning, cosmic chill due to.
Lunar gletchers’ wind, I will murder you.

I will murder your cold laughter, snow-storm, with hatred,
And although my pupils are beneath the coat of ice,
To my knees in show ash, I will reach the south, your patrie,
Neither dead nor living, simply: I will pay the price
And will jump down your throat, snow-storm, let twice.

It was I who raised you up, my lunar, ice-infested wind,
For two hundred twenty thousand years I nurtured you,
You escaped, and everywhere freezes every child,
One another mourning, under ice due to.

So I will murder you, my lunar, ice-infested wind,
Lunar gletschers’ wind, I will murder you.











This Is Not A Love



With him, there is only one road:
Look how quickly he’s laying
A bed. You will wallow, smolt,
With him in the same bed, claying.

With him, there is only one problem:
So how many times today
To lay? This is his true emblem:
With him Life is big Bawd Way.

With him, there is only one object:
To drift with his own stream
With him; towards new heart project,
This way or that way, new dream.

Once I was just like he is now:
I had a rush, and they suffered
My claw . . . it’s simply the law
Of ones who such freedom offered.

Once I this tell you did, smolt:
Do not come across so hole-in-
The-wally. With them, only this road:
With them in the gross be rolling.

Once I saw through you all, earn
I did the belief that your scene cries
All true. Don’t believe him, in urn
Throw him: his hand in the web lies.

Morning Spleen



Cold morning is bringing only the cold,
The emptied-out bed and dust in the wires.
The noon who’d caught cold brought with him hunger’s gold,
The emptied-out palms on somebodies’ back tires,
All ancient les pays
And strangiest pains,
Paysages’ torn pages,
Erectile cranes,
All thoughts of things past,
De trop, kitsch, unjust,
And souls
On the pans
This morning has brought me.

















If



The wife rolled up like a musical third.
Her husband sprawled on a chair like a stiff.
Their son lost himself in a badminton bird.
Then daughter quethen: ‘What if . . .’

The wife lifts her head like a somebody feared.
Her husband lowered his spread like a snorter.
Their son, as if drowning, catches a beard.
They look, and there is no daughter.

Again rolled up like a musical third.
Afresh a-sprawled on a chair like a stiff.
Eftsoons lost himself in a badminton bird.
As if there were no ‘if’.
















Divide Hundred By Hundred



Divide hundred by hundred,
Seem it will so much few:
Want you will future sundry.
Caught us did, me and you,
On this infinite ooze
In bright infantile eyes,
Spiderweb of warm loops,
Duckweed in innocent cries.

Divide zero by zero,
Seem it will so much else.
Leave behind you will sore.
Want you will a one. Yells
From here round globe
Circulation of blood.
But this also will strobe.
Leave behind you will word.

Divide us by us:
Seem it not will so much.
Trias start will do thus,
Times of octopus clutch.
So rock will the snooze
In infinite cries,
Spiderweb of warm loops
In bright infantile eyes.




Don’t Let Me Die



So what if faith has turned to ashes,
So what if sun is a black hole,
Since I make haste to you,
Though frightened to moustaches,
Since I make haste,
Since it’s high time to goal.

So what if fairy tale has turned to a true story,
So what if you don’t want to live,
Since I’m not frightened
By my empty glory,
Since I make haste to you,
Though hand is on my sleeve,

Since I make haste, for I hear shout ‘O help me!’
And I stop living ruining myself,
And I do tell myself:
Invincible are pelf, infirmity and mole,
But I make haste to you,
And I will save your soul.










Empty Set



When I am not at home,
I search for you.
But if you are not home,
I do not have a home,
And disappear I do.

When you are not at home,
Do you search for mea?
But if I am not home,
You do not have a home,
And you do disappea.

When we, you and I, are not home,
We search for our own do in,
But if both are not home,
Both do not have a home,
And disappears our twoing.













A Snail On A Slope



Had a dream last night:
I worm along a slope,
Fingers grope for stone
And for bosom grope,
Fingers ripping out
Shreds of the rheumy grass.
I worm on along a slope
And won’t lift my head of brass.

Had a dream last night:
I fell onto the stones,
And my eyes struck seagulls,
Seagulls and a thou-
sand blossoms. ‘Bravo!’
Shouted someone. ‘Stones
Have you now! Once more
You’ll fall onto them, pfau’.

And I dreamt next night:
I worm along the slope,
Gingers grope for stone
And for bosom grope,
Blindly, ripping out,
Shreds of the rheumy grass.
Again I worm on a slope
And won’t lift my head of brass.

During the day I’ll forget you,
My mare of night, crazed kindly;
Here I worm on a slope
Fumbling my fingers blindly:
This is my occupation.
I fall down, onto the cutters.
‘Once more!’ you’re shouting at me.
You’re closing down the shutters.

And again I’m dreaming tonight:
I worm along the slope . . .
And my eyes struck blossoms,
Seagulls, thousand pfau-
S. I fly down, to stones:
This is my occupation.
I will fall down once more:
This is the want of thou.

So I worm on a slope,
I worm on a slope,
I worm on a slope.

















To Talk With You



I go to you, on top.
Wait for me a little.
Well, they say, the world has dropped
Into dark. We have to beetle.
Give me word on floor — I
Want to talk with you.

Wait for me below.
We forgot the candles.
Doors are locked down — I gnaw
At the doors, while evening dangles.
I peer through the holes:
World is just nonexistent.

Wait, don’t cry — you understand,
On the best of all planets
Th’other I, who’s not present here,
I want to talk with you.

So at light of the screen,
In the ocean’s dim
I will sit with you while the whole evening dangles,
In the world which is nonexistent.

Noah from afar sent us his greeting.

I go to you.
High time for us to beetle.
To every one who’ll walk with us,
I will give a syllable.
I go to you,
Lighting up the candles,
And I think while this evening dangles
You will tell me everything, little by little.

Just give me word on your floor — I
Want to be talking with you.




























Start Back From Me



O start back from me,
Do not judge me harsh,
Come on break my heart.
Bury me into ground,
Feed me to devilfish,
Dredge with pepper and art.

With woollencot pad me,
In step with me march,
Two days left to keep track.
Come on break my heart,
Do not judge me harsh,
O start from me back.

Turn me into the dust,
On my palpebra step,
To your telephone call.
With fork runcible coif
In the seventeenth cent,
Give me back my crown, girl.

O start back from me,
Do not judge me harsh,
Come on break my heart.
Prove to me that I’m naught,
Reveal me waypath,
In hertz measure and smart.

Declare me a war,
But don’t touch me your hands,
Chains don’t clack.
Come on break my heart,
Do not judge me harsh,
O start from me back.































Preposterous Word ‘Music’



I know that you’re somewhere there,
You’re somewhere there, outside.
Do you hear me or you don’t?
Let me out, or else things will get bad.
O so, you want to see me?
Stand in a mirror look.
I’m preposterous word ‘music’,
I was born right inside of you.

In your childhood you read your books,
You were known in biblioth;ques —
Now you’re dancing drunken and naked,
All caked at discoth;ques —
Your skin’s glossy with sweat for ever,
On your lips, foam’s bubbles like dew.
I’m preposterous word ‘music’,
I’m alive right inside of you.

I want you so bad to wake up,
I am hitting my head the door against —
You’re not sleeping, you’re dead, you my veins,
My veins you gnaw like a beast.
Around you there are only corpses,
It was you who killed them all — look:
I’m preposterous word ‘music’,
I will die right inside of you.

And now you lie in a hospital —
They drove you in yesterday.
Bracing your eyes against the wall, here
You’ll while your evenings always.
In your head, words’ wreckage like jungle,
On your lips, foam’s bubbles like dew,
And preposterous word ‘music’
Is no more right inside of you.






























Last Plaything



‘My Mickey Mouse is wounded’,
Little girlie is raving, dying,
And it seems to her she is at home,
Only raw earth’s not drying,
And the stone is instead of pillow,
And the dark is instead of paradise.
‘Wounded is my Mouse Mickey’,
Little girlie raves as she dies.

And someplace afar from THEL,
In one minute’s walk from hell,
The violent wind is tearing off
The last leaves of garden’s dell,
In which not so long ago (Kyrie
Eleison, not a year had passed)
She and her Mickey Mouse
Loved so to stare at the water —
Hugging each other tightly,
From wildest of loves a-burning,
Stared at the movie on rooftop
In one minute’s walk from paradise’s Morning.

I don’t know what happened there,
But there now the love number two
Has burned down her heart with poison,
And raving is she, dying, too,
About a big blanc butcher shop
Where a doc in the whitest robe
Is standing, leaning, above the little
Mouse in a hugest ward,
About the way she keeps trying to
Break through to him, up there,
The way the water mortally freezes
In their lake everyscare.

But they keep on and keep on telling her, ‘What’s
The use of him? What about love number two?’ —
And her brain it just keeps on drawing,
Burning with bright blue firing,
Colors of earthly happiness
Where they would be living, playing.
‘My Mickey Mouse is wounded’,
Little girlie is raving, dying.






















They’ll Die (Mainframe Lies)



‘And my dad, and my mom, they’ll be buried?’
‘OF COURSE. THEY’LL DIE’.
‘And even my toys will be buried?’
‘OF COURSE. THEY’LL DIE’.
‘It means the sun and the sky will go snap?’
‘OF COURSE. THEY’LL DIE’.
‘It means tomorrow will now never hap?’
‘OF COURSE. THEY’LL DIE’.

And the boy once again checked the program.
All’s correct. To argue in vain you would try.

‘And her lips, and her arms, they’ll be buried?’
‘OF COURSE. SHE DIES’.
‘And her heart, and her body, they’ll too be buried?’
‘OF COURSE. SHE DIES’.
‘It means she will be no more about me?’
‘OF COURSE. SHE DIES’.
‘It means she will forget about me?’
‘OF COURSE. SHE DIES’.

And the boy broke the display’s screen with his head.
‘OF COURSE. MAINFRAME LIES’.







Cruel Starlight



So were you not with me, when all the stars winked out?
And were you not in sorrow? It seems to me that not:
We were trying our wings, were leaving nests of doubt,
And cruel starlight never affected us a dot.

And on the freedom shore, with cobweb overgrown,
The clockwork chiseled midnight and sunk into the dark;
And still we flew together, but silently was flown
Our flight, and two great shadows still run across the park.

And how small I am (and you, my dear playgirl),
And how few we are (in clothes or without)
And just how ridiculous we are in our hug’s lay, girl,
The cruel starlight suddenly spotlighted like a scout.
















Pessimistic Chanson



I am far from the modernist doctrines of Universe structure.
And for me, all its glories are empty diminishing sound.
Goodness is just not strong, only abstracts are incorruptible,
Though vile. Though while I lived here, not a one saw around.

Such is cosmos itself: when examined, inhuman and dreaded.
Though filled with the light, it is soulless, eternal and void.
How it was created, I do not remember, I never then treaded.
More coherent and closer is simplestest juniper bushoid.

It sticks out from the ground, on its branches are strobiles
ripening.
This is dear, at least, though it will burn down just the same.
In a semidark garden I stand, starlight’s grays warm me,
frightening —
Very weakly they warm, though, as my skin keeps on telling me.

I just wanted to tell you the fight of existing opinions,
Picturesquely a-fixing my eyes at the flask of cognac.
So I breath on the glass. No one. To my knees from my pinions.
Not to pray, no, but simply to take out the flask from a cached
cul-de-sac.

In the telescope are seen the stars, and it’s driving me yawny.
Someone walks all around the house: I can feel with my back.
These are wheezing black holes, they are figuring out someone
scrawny,
But they won’t find a topic to take me at all with discussion aback.

On the simple negation is based the defense’s procedure,
By the devil’s shrewd advocates chosen in solving my case.
What black holes are for me, I’m the same for holes, call it square fixture.
Out my window’s black rain. It mistook my house for water base.

Out my window’s dismay: whitest noise which’s devoid of
sound color,
Which’s devoid of the worldly analogies, burdensome noise,
And it all looks like I’m by Pre-Cambrian era surrounded,
Or by stuffiest night. Or by death. Or simply by samiel’s voice.

Say that I am a pessimist. You be given my cosmic fix data.
You be given, in songs’ set, my hymn: Pessimistic Chanson.
You prove it yourselves, that all that I’m seeing, is out of Bata,
Or batt. Like myself. Like the noise that I hear through sleep’s
sone.
















Valeri Highson



For my steadfastly stares
I’ll answer in full score.
Your world is passing there,
So near, I see its core.

It’s drawn so deftly, weather,
White world so delicate.
To take you into aether,
My touch please tolerate.

Above the air tautly
All’s moving like a sign.
O, we need us so hotly,
Though and like this won’t die.

With oxygenic failure
Was this our space condemned.
Deceptive is the nature,
For this nonthing won’t end,

And we, its own creations,
Reduced are to run-dries.
And I stare at flammations,
A-blinding my own eyes.

O you do move so archly,
Infanta of the time.
In you alone all’s lively —
More than in me, though I’m

Do witness you breath clouds
And fling to me, ‘Don’t touch!’ —
I still stare at flame loud,
At dancing fire nonesuch.































From the book
Minikin Decent Pony



self-portrait parting faceup
japan intercourse with you tuxedomoon from here to eternity silence alex from ‘clockwork’
metamorphoses of evilanthem of nothingness
handbook of heartbreak love undefeated
words through doors shadows of new buildings
concrete complete alone after movie
alice liddell elevated august
christmas foam of days
valeri highsonheaven is hell
the kiss on the glass saturday afternoon
being different poppy dawn
gold rush french leave
breakdown in threes arrow sing song, love dove










MDP
is
Minikin
Decent
Pony

MDP
is
Maniacal
Depressive
Psychosis

MDP
is
My
Dead
Precious










LOVE YOU
WHO LOVES ME

HATE YOU
WHO HATES ME

FUCK YOU
WHO FUCKS ME

SO KILL YOU
WHO KILLS ME


Valeri Highson
















Self-Portrait



And here on hand are now mandibles of steel.
Azoth reflects better than silver does.
Am I deenergized. Pulverulent faceshield
Can’t be decoyed-destroyed. The good here never was.

Here are dead ends, and one dreams printer’s pies.
Sunless in such land are all forests mar,
And hanging in them are all birds succise,
And washing in the sludge all voices are.

Burnt down I am. The falcon stares at wire
With nasty eye. It’s clayish erenow.
I tried to smash it at vault mount as a hire,
And left my cheeks in stained glass as a vow.

Henceforth the shreds. Henceforward to be charred
I haste to want. But heart on aarris
Sticks out in smoke. Short-circuited is starred
Bat-handle switch. I’m killed in January this.











Japan



I remember everything, but distinctly
Can see only my transit
From Japan, clear
From doubt, through a transparent
Door to a huge like a continent
Leaf of elephant’s ear.

Once I wanted to flee,
But lost my meaning at once.
Discomfiture.
It appears it is my destiny:
For me, to freeze, this time, for good,
Without stir.

Like bleed lines upon lake’s surface —
Rainbow circles —
We shall stay,
But not much more than that, still.

Here, Japan is the symbol
Of conquered survivors,
And of victory of weak will.








Tuxedomoon



It’d be strange if you didn’t remember the hungriest Februar-
Y of that bare year: the breakable ice, mica through frozen win-
Dows . . . Feeling of farthest north right in the Europe’s Hear-
T, Brussels the deadest city, blanket on bare floor under win-

D . . . In my memory’s dead ends these pages are crumpled.
A long bifid pole kept on trying to take them out of that hole.
Exactly in two decades before the start of the third millenium
I forgot you all, or, rather, that ‘all’ I could call ‘you all’.

‘We’ll never meet one another again’, a stone-beaten clause;
I’ll attire the moon in tuxedo and sharper shall look —
Above rustling snowdrift sliding my icing eyes-yoyos,
Above rumbling subway so chockfull with people like puke,

To remember your velvet, your nuded-out body like blueite,
Tartest taste of the kiss . . . of the kiss in the raving Februar-
Y . . . shall make music louder, though you
didn’t want to know it,
You said it was a signature of the ones who promise the war . . .

I discovered — you do must remember! — back then, in (hear?)
Hungriest February of that most bare year,
That sound for myself: speaking English, ‘Tuxedomoon’.
Only Moon was attired in tuxedo.
Disclosing itself, nature (we do
The same sometimes) raved in ernest like cowboy in a saloon.

From now on I’m gonna be distant. From Belgique
with a chilly hello
I shall reach out to thou a hand with scraps of ‘new wave’.
La critique de la musique is being built only so.
This is all that remains now of our frivolous country of brave.
































Silence



I’m inside silence, I’m way out of waymarks,
And I’m afraid of that, but even twice
Afraid that I’m shut away from clay sparks
Of world, that sound doesn’t know about my ice.

There is no holdfast on the curved mirror.
To count my steps? I’ve nothing to begin.
Behind this steadfast emptiness, so feared,
Everything tells that spoken be no thing.

I’m inside silence, and — a chill on my back side:
Here is the silence, and I’m inside, not outside.


















Metamorphoses Of Evil



Driving, sliding, rebound, rejection,
Dead, ridiculous, senseless friction,
Last, final, empty defeat, objection,
And, after emptiness, beautiful hue.

Volition, prowess, domain, division,
Creation, consciousness, verb, herb.
What was in the beginning? Driving,
Yes. But you’re dead, no drive in you.

And there result, as usual, rejection,
Configuration, answering, reflection,
Indifference, minus-all, incineration,
Beautiful smoke, rebound, sharpshoo
















Handbook Of Heartbreak



In this chase without,
we far and ambitious,
Both run for dear,
in a vicious,
And by what, hundred
(bodily, I, soully,
You) go out will we,
and big will come wholely
To all hopes for,
and minding our,
Underfoot, lest,
with quaver, to algour,
Like radiop loco,
endless sos,
I whisper we’ve done,
tears manifest.














Words Through Doors



Until the midnight chimed twelve digits silly,
She was a-making love to me, but by
The dawn the weather shrank, the street went chilly,
And fingerprint impressions won’t erase.
And so wont I.

For there are no hands, no sticks, no steeples,
To, having marked their end with black rag viscous,
Erase.
And what is left is only hope for peoples
And in a frozen vlei a dead dytiscus.

Well, wait till spring — and it will spring to life,
Spread out its wings, fly, swim, resume its strife,
It will be moving, as do I dare say I must,
Me-mannequin with shoulder under dust.

And no way to iconify, outflank or furl away
That stone oracular that’s standing in my way.

. . . And I smoking stand, I stand smoking still,
I was loving you, you I’ll love until,
I am marching home, morning chills anew,
You escape to dream, love I search for you.






Concrete Complete



In identical modular buildings
Was born the modernist species
Of man. We know of the willies
The devonian monsieur trilobite
Suffered amongst the rocks. Our eyes
Are too condemned to mineral skies.
In his sepulchre Darwin lies,
Only from old age he got final bite.

On extensive areas concrete
Expels asphalt, on every wrong street
Asphalt expels basalt. You won’t split
Their continuous pushing out.
Uranium and mercury principles
Hint at our inevitables:
Inorganic, like baby its mother’s nipples,
Every day asks our bodies to shout.

My descendant stands at the window,
Contemplating the angry screen through.
Right before his sight is the blind wall,
This is why screen is angry, I say true.
I repeat for the time number two,
Though it may annoy you:
Screen is angry, as is the street.

Speaking English, ‘the solid concrete’ —
It’s concrete complete,
It’s concrete complete.

Alice Liddell



Here is Alice L. running, stumbling at every step.
Drunken downpour’s diverting her steps from accurate rhythm.
I am reading about this and tag along Alice to let,
Let her know: ugly razor keeps watch right behind the yon hill.

Such indifferent baby face, ringlet of hair on a breast,
Lips set firmly and long skirt bedabbled with brownish motas —
I know better than anyone: she won’t return to the nest,
For inscribed she was into the chessboard graphical quotas,

And by now Alice moves like a pawn, being lost on the fields.
I won’t catch her in time, so I’m putting the book
right behind me.
I am watching the screan, but in poplars the thunderstorm builds:
Laus Deo, all these already are not to find me.

O not me. Here I sense the screem ‘Help!’ in all tongues
all at once,
And from opened-up book drop of blood’s flying down
on the parquet.
Turn around, and I break up my heart with obedient hands:
Right behind the yon hill ugly razor for Alice had waited,
all ready, like market.






Christmas



My never known warmed-up friend,
What Christmas is for me without you?
It is so meaninglessly dead,
If you’re not here.

Here winds are howling about naught.
I saw their film throughout to bottom:
On bottom only lies are gotten,
If you’re not here.

Transparent world for us lived softly,
White was the noise of simple wonders,
And under rain my groom went cold,
While I was waiting for you.

But lo! All flowers went dry,
Not simply I, but all has died,
So what now, Christmas, welcome nigh:
I wait for you, my light,
If you’re not here, all right,
If you are not
Allowed
To be here.







Valeri Highson



Without trace your last blossom has withered. On Earth
There never was even a trace of the warmth.
Your express that departed had torn petal off
Where buzzed the bad bee with one chill to scoff.

Dazzling Tuesday as guest of the winter. And tea
On old carpet, and, in tea, sparkling wine.
And it seems that last foliage’s trembling, in D,
Has burnt up that September like heaven’s ensign.





















The Kiss On The Glass



Scintillation obnoxious of your moist eyes
Beats the snickering there where your brain now cries —
Like the stiffened dream on its locomo,
Like the letters home, like the letters foe.

Of no use are dust and the fire of cheeks,
Of no dif is matter of who whom sneaks —
So please let me go, and your eyes don’t show,
Violate it all and kill out White Snow.

(Because home eaten out is by the fume,
Because daughter is being killed by son,
Because bitterness bound is to consume,
Because night to you and you all has come)

So please close down love, and your eyes don’t shove;
You did want things go so, so please now hove:
Cruel gonzo is there where my brain now cries,
Scintillation obnoxious of your moist eyes.











Being Different



Pestilence End is expecting you: dead
Father is leaning, clinging to you,
He holds the branch, swings the necklace blue:
Stonedead yell stops on Curve Dejavu.

All is dismorphing to Wry and Pain.
All is downmorphing to Ash and Tray.
Watch for pink smoke from a hut on a scree?

BEAUTY IS ONLY:
DIFFERENT
BE.


















Gold Rush



For nth day on I’ popping long the passes:
Neon of logos and young girls to taste . . .
But not to here my walk leads me, o masses:
Beauties are nues, but I stop any haste.

I do need gold: I say heigh-ho!
For me the rush is hearty co?

For nth month on I prowl round the quarters:
The thing I searched so much misses my net —
No neon here! And young boys (in visors!)
Sweat their guts out for doggy them to pet!

The answer’s lemon! snorks! not about us!
For Texas calls me to make fuss!

Texas is rich with torn canine —
All are done for, and ready I’m!

I concentrate on chewing on my rootlets;
Around are bushes standing out of gloom;
I hold in me no spite, no scorn, no futiles —
On first-name basis I’m with chippie-night for long.

Life’s heavy gear, turn round with all your might:
Stray dog is keeper of the light.




Breakdown In Threes Arrow



Well I was dumb, but o I had a charge.
There is a force in charge, so people say when march.
So I was drawing the ferreous seesaws
One hundred million long long years at a discharge.

Well I was deaf, but o I had a missile.
There is a truth in missile, people say in exile.
So I was shooting at the steelenous go-rounds
One hundred billion long long years at a textile.

Well I was blind, but all the words burn down.
There is a warning in words, people say when found.
So I was burning down the enigmeous volumes
I don’t recall how many long long years without sound.

Well I was no-one, but o I saw them soar —
The airplanes through air, in threes a-row.












Parting Faceup



Meeting with you on the fork of two hundred roads,
Being a fairy tale, brings enthusiastic hallucinogenic declines.
We’re burning out, for gunpowder’s burning in chords
Inside us, as are the whisper and rustle caught between lines.

I still repeat with fear:
I didn’t want the end . . .
Parting faceup with a friend
Of the clock-face of your sick face.

Meeting with you on the turn-off of the rwa earth,
Being the truth, repeats that numerous numinous years passed.
Past carry the night your ships made of skin chamois,
Life your trains made of exquisite velvet do carry past.

I still repeat with fright:
I didn’t want the end . . .
Parting faceup with a ronde
Is a clock-face of your dear face.











Intercourse With You



all that I was warmed with
all the words of yours
disappears as though
grass under the snows

i can’t recall already
where the surf made noise
it is impossibility
of intercourse with you

thus didn’t turn to earth the
parallel world of ours
and the hamlet bursted
as frontier was crossed

i can’t recall already
how did hautboy blow —

absolute is

impossibility

of intercourse

with you





From Here To Eternity



My sweet design that wasn’t realized:
I sinned my full, and will I be despised,
Not’s up to me. I burnt up, like stargazer,
My sweet design, my destiny’s calculation.

I raised up symmetry’s gardens, full of grace,
I’ve earned this way my bread, my works and chase,
And in inevitable virage freezing still
Is all I won’t have time to bring to life until.

What was the worth of all my searching and caprice,
My fruitless turn-out, my obsessional esquisse?
I’ve come up close to unconceivable prelude
Where the thought’s genius pays the cross to beautitude,

And no returning it now, no regain . . .
Design was left in scraps in my palm, and in vain —
Your sweetest universe that wasn’t realized.
I’ll be forgiven. And for it, despised.











Alex From ‘Clockwork’



Time was given in plenty:
Stretches and drags, like twenty
Hundred years of swamp in the tentacles
Of the octopus, where are twenty
Hundred years of the snore of the swamp.
I wait for the time which is plenty. You see,
Touch-me-not, hungry like lamprey in deap blue sea
Is Alex from ‘Clockwork’ stomp.

Wait for me, looking severely,
Angry and old dogwomp.
Hungry like hagfish in deep black see you leave
Is Alex from ‘Clockwork’ stomp.

















Anthem Of Nothingness



Quintessence’s deceptive,
As is surface, as usual.
Don’t show any hastiness,
There’s no conclusion.

And everybody repeats like one:
Nothing exists, it seems, it’s fun.

Enough of scanning
Of point through aeon, as
Here’s mathematics,
And no humaneness.

And everybody repeats like one:
Nothing exists, it seems, it’s fun.

This all is decorum,
A guise, a doll.
Who’s dear for you?
Everything’s devildom.

And everybody repeats like one:
Nothing exists, it seems, it’s fun.







Love Undefeated



I’m not afraid, not anymore, of fortunes’ weaving,
Don’t want to touch you with my aching hand.
Of wicked things, or of the pall of what’s going to sieve in,
I’m not afraid. I am so different now, my friend.

And wicked passion’s, passion’s touchy and precision,
Anymore interesting are not all your eaves.
But then again, no: all the same, like vision
(Not more than, yes) it’ll build into esquisse.

Where ceiling is, there is a floor; there are adventure’s chains;
I will repeat: the weaving and the pall;
Where a deliberate break in verse the genius gains,
There the world perishes. And it’s his blame for all.

And the world perishes, and supply virgin creases,
And bends the dream, a-ravishing the love . . .
But nothing’s left for it, not anymore, no teases,
But to repeat set phrase shove after shove —

Until the columns of the barriers turn to field,
Until the mainland into universe drinks in,
Until he dies, by some Jean-Paul being killed
Or by Matilda, he, the minikin old pin

(Who just the dream is) who by tilde marked
Is. And who’s known: reality is right.
Or wicked, dead. Or good. But in Forever parked . . .
And parked are Wasteland, Grass and Dream of Night.

You’ve read this? Yes? No truth your answer sparked:
Only your head was answering my plight.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

. . . I’m not to soul, and not to what’s to sieve in:
I do not weave — I just touch the crest.
Realty’s empty. In the fortunes’ weaving
Blind beauty’s pressed.

Survival of the fittest: monsters perish . . .
It’s all the same for us. We stare at the scheme.
You’ve read this? No? O yes, dark is nightmarish . . .
Let’s read from the beginning: it’s the itch to dream.





















Shadows Of New Buildings



The air is with gray chalk permeated,
The breast is taking it slice by slice,
And forgets itself, between deeds, misstated
Brain — silently, clutched with vice.

Tick the leggies: tails off, give ways!
Along known route, into water a kick.
Heels over head the stone will hit face —
Like gnashing of teeth squirt will the kiss.

Repulse will red corpuscle in a skirt,
Crawl into pit will a gay blue dwarf,
Shan’t risk the virgin: they’ll deceive again . . .

And the air is, again, permeated with gray
Or even with black — so let the brain plough.
If the brain wants life — so let it engage
With deeds the hearts empty and bodies our.

Dark mass of stories, adventures’ gravity.
Avenues’ clay, plastic of stanzas’ cavity.
A-wriggling her skirt, virgin leaves the scene;
The dwarf crawls after — he made of plasticine.

Closeness in heaven, stuffiness in heart.
Frequency of happiness is raving of thirds,
Vanity of graces, curved rumours of art.
The dwarf hasn’t managed: blue are the worlds.


Alone After Movie



Tonight, exceptionally pleasant are colors of sunset.
Why do you have to cry? Upon you now is no sin set.
You have your last jubilee:
You say vale to the wonderful world.
Why do you have to have tears? One can live without.

Tonight, in the park of autumn it’s exceptionally empty.
Your eyes reflect the constellations of welding.
You have tears on your knees:
O how you try them to warm.
In you, there is no more water. You are so easy to burn.

And, having burned down, your letters will soar to god’s seat,
And to old man’s feet will fall someone’s crust of wheat.
You will sweep your eyes over:
In them, no warmth drop, at all.
And this is it — ever nearer. And like an arrow fall.













Elevated August



‘Can it be that the wind’s harping on in spite of the fire
department,
Turning accident flame into hell knows what on extensive
widespread?’ —
Thus some passerby told me, having witnessed the sunset,
apart from where
(Inescapably, ‘it did shine’), having stuck in the branches,
sun smoke bled.

Well the answer was trite at first sight: this long plume
of the stratosphere fume,
All this eerie char — choose right words howsoever you may —
This bright wheelprint in sky, this slim silvery ribbonlet
gloom,
Are just end of the summer. That’s all. All in all, the jist
is the same.

Thus, it seemed, I could answer this foreign mysterious
stranger,
But phantom is phantom: he vanished, so did addressee.
And like smoke won’t disperse under light of dilapidate
ranger,
So I, playing the words, won’t revive greenery.







Foam Of Days



When the mantelpiece will have burned down
In a mansion so huge,
At the mirror the smoke will stand sound,
Which one’s hand won’t refuge,

And if ballast is really the ring,
I will sink it into river’s bay
And I’ll crush into fatalist seam
Of uncertainty not far away.

For Boris Vian not in vain —
He so late as of this here day —
Had concocted the trap of pain
Where one lilac got caught to pay,

And love’s symbol did pine, out crossed,
And the deer was sucked out plain.
What was left was just purple dust.
All the rest was by sloth burned brain.

And if mantelpiece had caught cold,
Well, it seems, it was just the same —
Because love was the tale moron told,
He just thought it was funny game.

So stand right behind my eyes:
Screw up your face, stare at dark gale.
You think you can see your warm house?
I think you can see your own jail.

You strain at your chain in dream
In rancid and evil fume.
Outside, no salvation. Scream.
You feel why it’s thus, do you?

O simply it’s just the bluff —
To go with a sourish wine —
By him who has got the barn
For those who take ring, supine.

And no dream whatsoever, no —
All is tumbling in broad day light.
It is plainly the spring has shone,
Who forgot about grass outright,

And her truth is only in this:
The withered thing won’t escape,
And even if it does die —
This
Won’t spoil the shape.















Heaven Is Hell



The world will end with these words:
‘Salvation is a jail’.
(And all that made our tears —
The winter that won’t fail,
The world of x’d-out chances,
The end of big great love —
To dust despicable cancels,
Like hate inside, above?)
You won’t say any darker,
And conjuring is a joke.
(The jail’s by no means ward, where
Barred is the window’s choke).
Salvation is in bitterness?
(Oh let me you, my light,
Answer with heart’s residuum
In shape of love’s null site).
So this is it, our freedom,
Gray beard and fat chance!
(In any type of season
Winters on cities dance.
You will seduce somebody,
And I will just give way.
The thorny snow till vomit
Looms in the Eden’s bay).






Saturday Afternoon



Black frost, glass ice
On open throws.
Matches freezing. A bas.
Forget scarecrow.
About his poverty
And ridiculous know-
How-to-dress, remember
No more. About his imperso-
Nation write two articles,
Send out in stageco-
Ach, get old and turn bald,
Drown like dilettanto,
Having drowned, not come
In no salon romance or
Cheap romantic affair or
Money raised on blood. Air
A head and end up like in trance.

Here they go to get married.
Not in vain matches carried.










Poppy Dawn



Whore, I will murder everything,
Erase from the face of Earth —
Because I am decent and tender,
O poppy dawn.

Who invented these fairy tails?
Who is this chin-up feist?
Angelos chimney-sweepers,
Prokhorov-poltergeist.

Feline, mohair, declivities,
I put the question on tracks:
It must be tough, since juvenility —
Fucking under the axe?

The pain I feel is pure ugliness.
The skull is crackling in grass.
Children are disintegration,
Hang something in head, badass.

Stop, Semaphore Ivanovich!
Almighty, dear friend!
One thousand years we saw not each other,
O poppy dawn!

Basta, I’m sick of all, finish!
To devil with such-a-days!
By me the war’s bombed, squeamish,
O scarlet sails.

French Leave



But from every moment of time there is no road back.
Of days past are offish the thrown fields.
Thus the slug is moving leaving the track,
And in way to horizon to zero builds.


























Sing Song, Love Dove



Tonight, the Moon — on.
The mountains’ d;cor — d’or.
And our eyes — yes,
And simple their pattern-tern.

In winter, he will be mine-wine.
I hear say — go catch-pay May.
He left me not, Noah — no, ah,
And again, surmise Paradise.





















From the book
Requiem For Valeri Highson



gnorw
lullaby for a common friend
head in ye fire
tear the chains of tears
never and nowhere
hope for nonsense
neverending night
emptiness in the demidark
neither grimmly nor olden
lonelyache
requiem for valeri highson
gesture of a sacrificial love
death’s prayer











Gnorw



. . . our all-loving square —
on four walls made of foil.

. . . venery that is wearing us —
into longitude’s void.

. . . this wide mouth made of whores —
along curve into feast.

. . . we all live; it is gnorw;
not the world, but the beast.

. . . my all-jubilant vnouk —
into slow-witted noise.

. . . my fear spider of book —
onto mockering eyes.

. . . this all-terrible end —
for the foil made of whores.

. . . we all live; all is hell;
explanation is: gnorw.







Lullaby For A Common Friend



Don’t cry. Blackest raven
On stair sleeps, wee gills.
I’ll bed a bit later.
Enough of these vigils.

Divide in two halves
The comfortless camp-cot.
I too don’t have fun —
As bright as the lamp: not

A chance she’ll recover.
What bitter of losing?
Let’s chant this fair cover:
It wasn’t our choosing.

They killed our girlfriend
Like sadists kill kittens.
All severs, resilient,
Everybody was wicked.

Please try to sleep soundly.
Sad little light reading:
To see how I squiggle
In darkness, ill-breeding

For shooting-range ethics
And worldly aesthetics
That equally wait for
The death of the aether

That late one embodied
For us with her singing.
She’ll never recover.
Restart from beginning:

Don’t cry. Blackest raven
Awing above morgue is.
Discords we won’t have them,
Too bitter our ork is.

We still are together.
Keep quieter, matey.
And thinking from aether,
For miracle waiting —

For which there’s no haven —
All tears I swallow.
Don’t cry. Blackest raven
Let flee. We won’t follow.

All leaves of autumn
Had fallen long, know.
All leaves of autumn
Decayed under snow.

Just two more long fortnights,
And snowstorms will squish in.
We made this provision:
It wasn’t our wishing.

And wrathfully mad
At indifferent threat posting,
While you are asleep,
I’m writing on frosting:

While we are together,
No need for the sorrow:
She’s with us, together,
As sure as tomorrow.

She’s with us, together.
No need for the sorrow.
She flashed a big smile.
I sleep in plaid’s furrow.


























Head In Ye Fire



It was all the same for me,
And, falling, the light shed tears.
There was nothing at all,
And after a thousand years
In the house where we, to-
Gether, thought that we’d found
Waterbasin for two,
Bleached the farewell sound
Of one verse, soughed from ground
Of one Earth, and went through.

Will I recall your accent,
Phrase ‘oh well, I’m off’?
‘Well, I’m off, mon ami’, not by accident,
One thousand times a year, like the foe,
Ghosts whisper to me, and I hear,
I am not deaf, for big woe.

From one’s window be seen it:
Along some limit
I, limping, to you make a go.

For me, it was all the same.
For I was both rude and beyond.
No, it’s all libel, lame:
I was both stupid and young.

Now through layers, through
Clay that has hidden the home
I can discern: You.

In my empty heart, form
Of one object at all.

(In my empty heart — form
Of one object at all).

Even if it doesn’t exist at all,
Even if I’m drunk and off-the-wall,
And found not light but went into dark —
Reason won’t strike a spark
To weave strands around it,
And besides, what for? Hark:

I’ll repeat myself many times:
Simple is my fairy tale.
I take the world for the mouth that chimes,
Whispers and makes a gale
That leads one on and on in its wake,
And thus it comes out it is the Way,
And just like all those who went along,
I won’t swerve from it, nay.













Tear The Chains Of Tears



Cease to squint so crossly at my cocklemind:
You of doleful feels, he of doleful bind.
All your love for me I just won’t let in —
For I heard night tell, ‘quicker tear that skin’.

I believed her not: all I looked at you . . .
O my heart is eye, I’m a tear in dew.
And that dew is tears — no one knows whose —
I am wholly blind, I am lost in dews.

‘Like a neck in a collar, my cockledome,
Nobody, nothing are long since home’.
Your likeness I took off, got laid in the brain,
Twenty times at a go — and let enemy gain . . .

Roar with me ha-ha at all this put on —
Everybody’s discrepancy and wall made of walls.
You are nowhere now, you are now no one,
You came to me and burnt greatcoat to coals.

For the clothes are delirium and morpheus-whim,
‘L’ and ‘M’ are nonsense and churches’ lies:
Having bombed the world and the night put prim,
Now we visit butt and lured daughter cries . . .

Well we leave them all and surrender jail —
We will live not ‘here’ and to no ‘avail’.
(I’ve already said that you are not here —
It means I’m with you; others, disappear).

. . . Keep on shining through rigid bars of false!
It is better, than. Show them all your ‘balls’.
As for me, your eyes send me one more time:
Their look heart beat (well, two beats, my crime).

Gayer look at things, gayer drink your rye.
You’re not Paul, but you, too, are Val;ry.
Yes we hate it all, and each other’s strife.
We are cutest ones: we give grave to knife.


























Never And Nowhere



A time and a place to find myself.
A time and a place, a pond with the icy water.
A pond with the icy water, tousling the algae’s pelf
(Here near there’s no yourself), shakes by the wave’s quarter.

A time and a place to find yourself.
A time and a place, a park with the foliage’s yellowness.
A park with the foliage’s yellowness,
keeping your memory’s wealth
(Here near there’s no myself), asks on the second-name basis:

‘Who has been lost in here? What didst thou lose in here?
Who has been lost in here, crying and so alive?
Crying and so alive, all in unheated fear,
What didst thou both lose in here, weak in the head with drive?’

I speak in response reply, ‘I have been lost in here,
I lost my way in here, keeping her memory’s wealth.
Weak in the head with drive, all in unheated fear,
We have been lost in here, burying the past and pelf.’

A pond with the icy water, a park with the foliage’s yellowness.
A hatred towards a heaven, having crushed into grass.
A telephone on a wall, drive in the head dumbfoundness.
A loneliness in a night, all like dream awake pass.





Hope For Nonsense



I was essentially near the answer:
Whirlpoolly, panically, in the summer . . .
Wickedest mystic, o excellent pani,
Is to recognize you in some marzipane
At a table, in small talk, at some handiwork,
In a solitaire tea-set and even at idleness . . .

You are not dead, it is premonition.
Knowledge impossible at one’s volition.
I’ll meet you in crowd at station vauxhall,
I’ll hit your back, ‘Devil! I was told by all . . .’

You’ll answer: ‘Damnation and devils are hale
In a hall’. You won’t answer me. Valeri, vale.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I can see clearly: I’m on a bench,
Kids in a sandbox, sly snakelets on etch . . .
Piece of the sky, water fountain put twice,
Ices in head, neverending stark ice . . .

Lions on columns in Gothic vast hall!
I’m at vauxhall! Devil, they told me all!

. . . Then you come closer, towers Paradise:
‘Close your eyes, guess who I am, at first try!’



Neverending Night



1
Before me, emptiness and photograph’s topography:
The empty street, the porch, and the typography —
Piece of a taxi, you’re a-curved waistline,
My collar up — view Russian, not Italian —

Though I’m lying. Here’s the table and junk jewellery.
Table’s not empty. Here’s the corner of a cafeteria —
We’re shot by a photographer: we’re almost at the goal, we,
You and I, like cells of epithelia.

2
Excuse me for so much exaggeration:
It was not we who thought up inclination,
We should not grumble. Not all things hallucinations,
Though ‘two of us’ is not among all nominations.

I am distracted. Let’s go back to the photography.
Here we two stand near ancient typography,
Backside to backside. Just two meters’ separation.
Still we two waiting. And, at margin: ‘Expectation’.

In hand of the photographer. Not ‘Meeting’, not ‘Partation’ —
Thus, only thus. Exactly. ‘Expectation’.

3
Yes, expectation. Momentary and eternal.
Though I’m lying. Real world, lame, hibernal,
Is measurable by the time corporeal
For this exactly, for not momentary or eternal,

But rhubarb-like (well, vegetable), it grows at separation.
Thus on the photograph we stand in expectation
Of flash lamp’s moment, turning round, recognition,
The goat with tripod, smiling, ‘what a corporation’ —

But if we’re to believe the truth (the objectivity),
We’ll ascertain our own full fictivity
As of two friends: daguerreotype without taxation
Had left of us only the gloom of expectation.

4
Nor in the noon of meeting, neither in partation’s midnight
Our faces did reflect the waves whose seed, bright
And just corpuscular, in essence, gives the snapshot
Its static being and its frozen traces.

No one will find us, standing in embraces,
Sitting or making tag-along run motion —
Beetle-browed, as though a printed funeral notion
We’d just received, on a photog
We just resulted, in a bluish fog.

5
Like day with twelfth stroke is to night reduced,
Like world turns round, like virgin is seduced,
So in that cadre we don’t say ‘bye’ to one another in the street:
We do not part — and even do not meet.







Emptiness In The Demidark



Just like remembrance of premortal groany,
In demidark of consciousness is lonely pony.

Even if I saved him, so what for, seven?
He has got no name, got no eyes, even,

For him, there’s no time. He will die, an old squire,
In darkness of little square, before the great fire.

Of him, memory will be left — a small note, cuss.
All remembrances — ‘serve with sauce, to vodkas’.

So-so, to eat pulp, to recall, belching,
How run around one quirky short urchin,

Kissing the dimples, tousling ears, whole,
Dragged into a cell and corrupted a soul.

I stand — stony. In the dark — a match.
Between me and little square — fast train I won’t catch.

Between me and kindergarten — Separation.
I whisper, ‘Shall we meet?’ — as partation.







Neither Grimmly Nor Olden



Nobody will tell, neither Grimmly nor Olden,
About how we wanted to look at noon golden;
Just darkness will droop like hairstack without clasp-pin,
Will hide in dark crown the shadow of cart gig,
And fumble will footsteps through lanes and dead ends,
And nobody will hear, neither foes nor friends.

Of us, only postal, small almanac, empty,
They’ll leave (and what for?), filling herbal, so tempty,
Loud laughing at words about two of each talion,
At life that was lived and at Valeri-Vale . . .

‘The summer will end, then the winter will start’.
‘The living will end, jail will start, you big smart!’

And maybe the midnight’s at fault with all shape —
With raving of lemur so loving primape,
With way how all grass here’s stamped flat and succinct,
With way how the drape is just like the red mint . . .

Nobody will tell, neither Grimmly nor Olden,
About how we wanted to look at noon golden.