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Those deadly beautiful things...
A bomb rain
or a bursting night-sky mushroom.
An imploding mind...

The empire of dreams macadamises you
with images. The sun is
unbuttered bread; life is oily
under the sunflower.

If your religion is vandalism, your god is
in pieces. Your consciousness,
hillock upon hillock...
Even your language isn’t your language.

Your nightmare: the insatiable kiss
of déjà vécu.
What do you say to a dynamite ape?
To a multi-knife scarecrow?

Questions, queuing up.

Satiety, pencil-bodied.

An abyss inside the abyss.

(First published in BlazeVox No 20, 2020)

Viking Breath

How does it feel to be the Cultural Attaché
for the North or South Pole, the ice
of the voiceless?
No encyclopaedia will give you shelter.
As life drifts by, the waters ache
and pallid faces stare from every porthole.

Winter is inside us, it's tasty
like a sea onion.
Who will get the first bite?
Crunchy things surround us:
the shore, the bleak frosty sun,
the clouds glistening like Santa's beard.

Amundsen has sailed into a greater crispness.
Penguins are chanting defiant slogans
outside our red tents.
What are we waiting for?
What is sprouting up
in our hoar-frosted hearts?

(First published in Rose Red Review No 15, 2015)

The Ninth Count of Monte Cristo

swims across Lago Maggiore
into forgiveness.
His revenge, a flooded village;
his harem, oysters.
Italians excel in retrieving deadwood,
so hope is always behind the next
wave crest.

Scientists crave simplicity.
In every lightning, there's God,
in every smile, a sea flag.
Clemenceau surrendered to the wind,
De Gaulle adjusted his sails
but the swimmer avoids a rendezvous
with his rippled soul.

Meanwhile, the opposite bank
is slipping farther away with each
passing hour. Air currents
spell the art of decay.
The Count's old watch is dead.
The time it's been gathering for years
comes gushing out.

(First published in The American Journal of Poetry, Vol. 1, 2016)

Marinetti Talks

In the vineyard of language, he lives a second life
as a scarecrow, well-dressed and admirably arrogant.
"For gods and poets, nothingness can be productive," he lectures
to coming generations of ingenious narcissists.
"Thorough reworking is a sine qua non.
Think cities. Think swarms."

The future world stands naked before his eyes.
The tree of possibilities is flush with blossoms.
"Leave modesty to the modest," he sleeks
the straw of his speech.
"Let people appropriate and use
the best parts of you."

Symbols of space assemble themselves
into battle scars. He is at war
against his words.
"Be the loudest mouth on Earth," he addresses
the vultureful void. "Only then will they stop
listening to you."

(First published in The American Journal of Poetry, Vol. 1, 2016) 

Lost in the Flow of Time

(For Tomaž Ŝalamun)

Names and butterflies flutter around
while the literati picnic on the grass.
Oblivion oozes its way through black holes.
A few centuries drowned here.

The civilisation theatre closes shutters
and cuts off the last sunbeam.
From a time-warp, out comes the centennial dusk
and shapes into the words:
In fact, the world was a dwarf.

How many millennia have been missing?
Are we living in phantom time?

As we wave the cerulean flags of everyday,
the wind weaves the veins of want.
Trains of reason run in all directions
seeking a shortcut to tomorrow.

(First published in The Missing Slate) 


He slurps the blue sky jelly.
Crickets chirr in his beard;
a little ugly planet swells inside him.

He unrolls the scroll that reads:
"If you give birth to pebbles,
they will grow into mountains."

Tin whistle music sprinkles yew trees
with silver. He's the world's broken rib.
He's alive. He is.

(First published in Shot Glass Journal) 


Who are you? How did you make it to the surface?
Weren't you supposed to drown in inter alia?
Weren't you about to be swallowed by Leviathan?
Oh and by the way, has he finally learned how to master time?
Did you avail of uncommon sources of sound:
a livid liver, vertical pride?
Did the sea ink dissolve in your blank-page eyes?
Did dead names donate their labials to you?
Was there a script in your crypt?
Were you here one day, and the next in the many points
which comprised "there"?
Was there fear on the North side of the year?
Did you swim through the light derived from your breath?
How salty was the salt of your circumfluous heart?

(First published in Shot Glass Journal) 

The Way of the Wings

A caterpillar speaks in sunsets
and rain clouds.
It wishes it had wings
to wave away the sand of its dunes.

A chrysalis perceives a sunbeam
as a red alarm striking inside the cell.
Its night is filled with tiredness
like a silicone jar.

A butterfly enjoys moist-winged
wind kisses.
It prefers the foam of love
to the fleeting eyes of anger.

A butterfly hates the moment of landing
into an assessed value of what it is
and what it has done
with its life.

(First published in The American Journal of Poetry, Vol. 2, 2017)

Four Poems in BlazeVOX Magazine

Four Poems in Otoliths

Three Poems in Shot Glass Journal

Prose Poems translated from Russian by Carol Rumens

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