Youth

There you are sitting with your dope throne
and telling me I don't know shit about your life
with your lights off and the bubbling  of your idle bones
 " I'm walking a different path to a real positive light"
you tell me and you tell me and you tell me while
   you are planted on your ass


        your friends are so cool, so cool, not like me
they understand the real you, the how you feel, you
  tell me like I'm too fucking dim to really see
that they all the time gotta be loaded to just to be with you
  you tell me and you tell me while
        you ask me to leave


the world doesn't truly fuck you until you stop trying
    like I owe you some kind of prize for being who you are
you look at your profile and you start crying
    because you're just a fucking grain of sand, and not a shiny star
          you tell me and you tell me while you
            hold yourself hostage to the splinters


some day you will have to use a pint glass or a tire iron
        or a novelty Disney pencil
to get
     your point across,
or jump out of a window, or a moving mattress
       to escape what you deserve

or let cops pull on your nipples
      when you're in handcuffs
 and not say a fucking word

you'll go to work where the boss
 tells you to
      get on the truck and
         shut the fuck up
your hands will bleed

she'll laugh at your dick
you'll get ripped off
  she'll try to cut you if you try
 to put your dick in
      someone else

In short
   you will have to grow
        up
and no one will love you
     until you do.

urok voiny- a lesson of war

Вот Taнк

Тam  Танк

Море -Окно

Без Прычын ,

Зеркели сломало

Держиваю зубы

в  карманах

по земле мои мечты

Тащивао

представляю глазы твои

съеденные мухами

за нас обоих

буду плакать

чуть- чуть поздновато


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Here, is a tank

There is a tank

the ocean is a window

without any reason

It broke a mirror

I carry my teeth

in my pockets,

 over the earth my dreams,

I drag,

I imagine your eyes,

sat upon by flies

for the both of us

I shall weep

Just a bit too late.


   

That one time

in the cage of shadows

by the birches cast

  your red raincoat 

         wetly shines

Papers and clouds of dreams are stuck to the 

benches and the iron railings

 awasy in the fading sky, 

  I look at you

the way a child 

  sees the circus

for the first time

  

the window where we meet

         tries to steal the candy colors

of your coat 

  but it can/t

      

   You're nothing special, though

       a normal heart

filled with the ocean and

       a million golden clocks,

            amethysts and

        a harvest moon.

Just an ordinary Goddess,

    swirling, among the world

             with unmuted plumage

           when you kiss my cheek and leave

                it burns and lingers like

                      a hot shell casing

                among the smoke and noise

                        inside of me.

He died one day
     For three minutes
Not days
   A machine was
Prepared,
  But not ready
        For a while it
Was winter light
     Through an oceanic window
The loud congress of
   Birds’ Shadows and
Velvet black indigo
       The surprising cast
Of their kind, amber eyes
     
    Welcome back
Sputtering and
  Cut
Where everything hurts
  And nothing
Makes sense
  He cries
Like a child
     Missing
Christmas

response to a poem about war

  The writer wrote and got it
    written larger.
It was pretty good, you know,
      talking about shrapnel and using
words no one really uses
        in those situations.
It was sad and made me
        think about life
It was beautiful and made me
          see farther

I think he got it wrong though,
         like the part when,
and i heard it before like the whole
      "seeing your friends perish"
no, not it.
       not it
              you don't think like that,
because you look at someone else and say
    "wow, he got fucked up" and then
" I'm really glad it wasn't me"
       It's going to be me and no one is really
 going to give a shit.
     Sure, the feeling passes and you might
           have some tears and pour liquor on the ground
                    but the feeling comes back
that you aren't a good person
          and never will be
                and you get to keep that
              and you get to hold that gift next
                     to your face in the mirror
                or when you walk by a window with your
                                kids

one time pad

 plowshare inkwell
pommel anvil
skillet hammer
heartbeat bellows
reveal assume
golos" petard
angriff poltroon
sailcloth physic
spoken hidden
written stumbled
teardrop sapphire
freckles fingers
sunset perfume
lighter candle
kisses highway
goodnight goodbye

Renting old rooms

  He wrote such lovely

stories,

 the landlady

         was rattling off

the broken words

         scattering the dried leaves

of explanation

  here, a broken chair 

          in the corner, 

a guitar pick on the

       window sill

  newspaper in the sink

        the scabs of potato peels

       archaically holding court

          in the tiny kitchen.

             

There is an alcove in the wall

      an arabesque point 

to a pragmatic rectangle

          at its apex

where phones used to hide their 

       dials and wires, a slender 

  shelf where the phonebook

        used to rest, 

  "let your fingers do the walking" 

                 here was a 

quiet life, 

     delicate and rustling away

                contented in the 

         dark, 

              hovering over old news

we can clean out everything, and 

       you can use the wifi

contemplating the old junk and 

       i suddenly want her to leave

        me to it

                i am left impecunious

by her rapacious rent and sundries

              am left in awe of the

quiet life that has left

         this container

the wind on the lace

           the devil must have 

hated him,

     for God loved him so
                                  - Duarte Gaivota