Category: poetry

i collect the deceased
like the nihilist bazárov.
i have killed one lately
with a puzzling easy
and absolute impunity.

but why did they have
to die? was yevgény
vasílevich more destined
on two hundred pages than
i was in all these years?

i collect the deceased
and put them neatly
on the shelves. that way,
no one will guess that i am
a necrophiliac.

i am not dead, just
existentially challenged.
admittedly still without
an official certificate,
but who would pay
attention to such
technicalities? i refuse
to embrace this mockery
which i am supposed to
pursue just by the sheer fact
that i was born. and please
spare me arguments
like those about people
dying of hunger in sudan.
i will remind you of them
the next time you feel
a terrible toothache
with no dentist nearby.

ah, so now you feel
offended by my trivialisation
of death and suffering.
this is quite interesting,
just remind me what was
this video that you shared
with such enthusiasm,
you know which one.
no, of course i know
you did not shoot it.
you just circulated it
for fun. who knew that
this crazy teen would take
all those pills after that.
but do not worry, no one
blames you. in the end,
you are only existentially
challenged, just like me
and her.

i told a joke,
an anecdote really,
that only amused
one guy in the room,
but he was american
among the british
and a bit odd,
borrowing titles
from kafka.

so this story was
about how shakespeare
would feel more at home
in the mountainous regions
of north carolina
than in his native london
if he travelled in time
to the present.

however, the real pun
was not actually hidden
in the accents
but in the silence
that followed.

there are words that cannot be
translated and there are words
that probably would not be wise
to translate. either way, we are
dependent on the gut feeling
and goodwill of someone else,
an interpreter who can say,

a fellow who stakes his whole
life on one card – a woman’s
love – and when that card fails,
turns sour, and lets himself
go till he’s fit for nothing,
is not a man, but a male.

and everything seems fine
until you see the last line
in the original that reads
не мужчина, не самец,
and then you feel cheated
twice.

first because the translator
corrects the author, and then
because she might actually
be right.

any time i bump into manhood
still drunk with the siege of troy,
i wonder what does it mean to be
a man?

i guess it was easier back then,
before we turned the last frontier
into a car park filled with camper
vans. at least everyone knew their
place in the line. the dictionaries
did not contain bizarre words like
harassment. actually even better,
there were no dictionaries at all.
and best of all, we ruled supreme.
so why bother with such a silly
question?

well, any time i bump into manhood
i quickly sober up since she once asked
if i wonder what does it mean to be
irrelevant?

i am / i’m going to die.
you are / you’re going to die.
he is / he’s going to die.
she is / she’s going to die.
it is / it’s going to die.
we are / we’re going to die.
they are / they’re going to die.
everyone is / everyone’s going to die.

i think you get the idea.

i have never asked to be born, yet
something holds me accountable
and i have already been punished
by the silence of my own children.
the bitter irony is that i did it myself.

i have always wanted to play it safe,
you know, life. the problem is that
the green man is just a convention
and what is left is a cup of mint tea
with a hint of self-pity and seaweed.

someone took a picture just before
you blew out the candles and it will stay
that way, your gentle smile suspended
in time and your eyes closed as you make
your wish. i am sorry i missed your birthday.
i have never been good at these things, but
i know you will not hold it against me.

there are always things to say and you are
not afraid to say them. there are always things
to forgive and you will never fail to forgive.
that is why, while listening to you, I am asking
you to forgive me for accusing you of naivety.
if i had been born innocent, maybe i would not
have become the cynic i am. but i still listen.

in the world of language,
word definitions are very
important. but what if you
already have a good definition
but no word, for example,
seagulls on the promenade
fighting over bags of garbage.
in fact, i think in this case
i might actually have one,
anthroposcene.