Myrotel - poem

  creation poem

  1
  white hotel

it all started with a twilight
I was looking for hope, digging through
in yesterday's waste 
Life was passing like dead silk

Death strove confusedly after her
out of the house, frightened even by the scream
stuck in Judah's own throat
the feeling of the utter impossibility of what was happening

when I found myself in this next nightmare of mine
in which half of reality is mixed up
with hallucinations, dreams, seizures
illusion embodied in reality – existing in my head

bursting through the prism of fogs
of narcotic delirium, cigarette smoke
the headaches and the clinking of wine bottles
I feel the walls, I feel the doors


  2
  occupancy

I'm being chased by the Hounds of Glory
they want to skin me
they want my scalp on their mantel
who's back there? who?!

who came out of the twilight? who showed himself among the leaves?
whose turn to throw stones at me? who will I see now?
oh, it is you, the Square...
what else will you give the servant?

at the reception Lucifer in spectacles
what do you demand from my poetic trip?
I'm fucked dosed out of my mind
I need to go to the bathroom to the mirror

he gives me the keys to the Horror
with a smile, pointing to the piled up
the bodies of the psychonauts from Marx Square!
I knew everyone by name! I remember how they were tied up...!


  3
  misters monsters

It was on September 11th
near the construction site in the old apartment
there was a patrol, armed
and the guys only had peace pipes

god, this place is full of uniformed bastards!
everyone wants to grab me, shoot me!
I won't let them, I break the mirror
I'm on the other side of the existential

monsters have infiltrated here as well!
headless figures, torn apart junkies.
slaves of an inert God, servants of Mr. Minimal
all the freaks of this world

they ask, "how shall we die?"
they whine: "give us death, we deserve it"
and I just give them some junk
and go on my way to the sound of tyrannical sirens


  4
  I'm in pain

my ripped out lungs are still breathing
my aorta's openings still let the creek flow
my wrists are like a field of trenches
my temples are shining through, to the North...

clinging to another vision
I suddenly cried because
only when we touch someone
or touched ourselves

only then can we say with certainty
"I really being"
the fact is that only other people's touches
prove to us that we exist

illusion consists of fractals of perception
I'm losing even that
the world that I invented
it's not even me




  poem " Ronin"
  (pt.1. The Beginning of Suffering)
  Book of Life
  ;

 1

go out into the courtyard
watch the leaves fall
the last of September is coming to an end.


 2

shadows have their blades drawn
I'm ready for my next fight
I've got my hand on the pulse of the verse


 3

come out to Death
leave the Night
turn my back to the Rising


 4

seventeen of ours have already fallen
under the arrows of the horizon
without fear to look into the eyes of Eternity


 5

blood is the pride of the blade
the garbage pamphlets of my poem
is only the beginning.


 6

the silence before the downpour
the leaves fall, twirling twice
the garden is faded with tears


 7

bury your honor under a rock
to find a Master in the Way
a path made of thorns

 
 8

troops cross the bridge
demons come out of the caves
darkness, and its overcoming sparkles


 9

to survive, to wake up for some reason 
to go to the kitchen for a drink of water
don't know why you're still alive


 10

the rocks are beating against the sea
the sun's rays attack their Master
everything is backwards, inside out


 11

dusk suggests a shadowy run
the road drenched in the blood of the night
the moon commits seppuku on its summit


 12

sharpen your poem
a craft must paint the master
remember who gave you the name

 13

To flee to the East, to hide
from the clutches of deceit, the claws of betrayal
don't look to the North, be on your guard


 14

Death is not around the corner, it's straight ahead
only Life, like an assassin with a knife, is waiting
at the crossroads with his accomplice, Happenstance


 15

I was caught unawares, I was ambushed
I didn't hide behind shields
thinking of Homeland while I burn


 16

it turns out it's just someone else's game
lying on the edge of the world
I never found the entrance to the Black Hotel




  poem of execution

  5
  the great Sophistication

oh, it's been and it's been
to me, to all of us, I guess
when we get into the Twist
it's only then that the Portrait becomes flesh

only then does our reflection seem real to us
when we see the worst
when we stumble upon our own ugliness
only then do we feel real

much of this we've discussed
over a cup of tea in my hotel room
with The Man Who Wished to Remain Incognito
then simply Man-Nothing, Man-Nowhere

this is the philosophy of exploration
every find seeks to hide beneath a pile
of stones and dust, Reality always covers up
its own, bringing only positively charged conflicts to the judgment
                of the public


  6
  fatalism is for fatalistics

oh, really, it all happened
the doors were open, the room was in shambles
I was taken by wolves in chieftains
they dragged me to the Square to the applause of hallucinations

I know that they believe in the goodness of what's going on
as an inviolable law of Reality
but because I am a poet, but more of an addict
I automatically bring the Sweet Wind of Destruction into their lives!

I am Chaos itself, its humanization!
my principles, my random actions
loosen up their Structure
pushing one step closer to the Abyss

because everyone, absolutely everyone has to see it
must look into her truthful eyes
I have been appointed Chief Graphomaniac, and therefore
at the snap of my fingers, reality repeats itself again and again


  7
  the principle of ascent

we wait for the cliff at the end of the road
at the end of the road, a pact with life
"every detail must obey the code"
I see an old propaganda pamphlet on the walls of the Ministry

rip it off or stick a new one on?
that's the question, that's the dilemma
I think there's no mystery to it
for the truth exists outside the walls and the cuts

climbing higher, to the very peak
will you think of the people you love below?
about what you have left behind and what you have forgotten?
or does it not matter?

just not to fall off!
that's what's on your mind right now
when you're adjusting your shoulder bag, don't forget that the
                heavier the scrub
the more painful it's gonna be when you crash and fall


  8
  poem enten – eller

цhen I was framed under the Tongue
I felt the letters splintering on the leaf
they are the same flesh, also have decay
also afraid of it, also trembling before Death

I was bent to sign a paper with names
am I a word to you to be bent?
I was wriggling out of the bonds of obedience
but I have been held back by cases and tenses

oh, Failure, I must go on
unfortunately we are no longer meant to be together
another adventure awaits me, another fiasco
there's no one in my way who knows my name

what do I do and where do I turn?
I hear sirens around every corner, every alleyway
I am urged to disappear, to go beyond the sea
To never show my face, but I don't show it




  poem "Ronin"
  (pt.2. The Way and the Cause of Suffering)
  The Book of Obedience and Illusion
  ;

 17

faded spring waters
a pond, dead carp in it
To forget for a moment

 18

to flee from the city, from the smoke
find yourself in the reflection after the rain
listen to the deserts, learn silence


 19

camped in the woods, in the shadow of the
of the Great Sun, the gold of our days
I hear in the bushes of Doubt


 20

the pass over the river, the bridge is close at hand
I put on my Fatal Armor
I will never be a samurai


 21

murderers and thieves sneak
seagulls and wind soar
people die


 22

I've killed a hundred
I've been hit a hundred times
the horse drove my body to the precipice


 23

every breath counts
I bat my eyelashes, I'm still alive
I'm a butterfly, I'm frozen in time


 24

armies of the Cold, servants of the North
how many of you will come out against the corpse?
mortal sun standing


 25

my blade, my poems, my drugs
it all exists only in my world
where am I and who am I?


 26

I'm a bargain, I've sold for a lot of money
five books, five contracts
with the Void


 27

captive to follow the stars
the thrushes will tell me the code to the lock
on the edge of life
 

 28

listen to what the brook says
as it says, so shall it be
kneel, bow your head


 29

out of the smooth, out of the unexpected
a flutter will appear a green serpent
ready only for death


 30

asphyxia, losing sighs
the noose tightened tighter
hanging over the world like a cloud


 31

snares at the palace and in the village
are set, each one trapped
to see a dream, mistaking it for reality


 32

the cold drowns me in icy water
my teeth clenched in the asphyxiation of existence
rebirth is a flag over the captured Tower




  supermarket poem at 03:00

  9
  00:00

the cart rolls, we're in
and the world outside isn't pretty
everything's for sale, everything's for purchase
no place to stay

where's my Oasis? There's nothing
passing groceries, souvenirs
plantations of goods, muscular vegetables
and fruit dressed up like whores

all pans, rice sticks, onigiri
a thousand thousand variations of Coca-Cola
a few million more reality substitutes
oh, look, my Companion – Love suspended on hooks!

thieves and jokers of wondrous works!
art today is on a BIG SALE
but the cart rolls on, closer to the ocean
of treaded rails – the stories of purchases and their receipts


  10
  01:00

what did I put in the cart?
to my little temple, my church
a couple of trinkets, tasteless canned beans
a few cans of soda and rat repellent

eight books (I can't get the ninth one together)
a dozen poems, a few more poetry cycles
of course, about 2,000 (in total) verses
some crude prose is sitting at the bottom, too

mostly bad luck
this is what crawls in the shadows behind me
with the clatter of the wheels of my Life's Wagon
that which haunts me, from which I flee

but to which I must always return
the great in the small is my illness
and my attempts to erect it in the framework of Art
my confession, my self-immolation, my atonement, my diary


  11
  02:00

who's there? Between the counters
but you can't tell
if it's you, Lev Khlebnikov, suffering from gout
from an unfinished poem stuck in his throat?

Artem Vakhrin, the swarthy chief of Truth
are you between the butcher's rows
looking for new material for a story?
or have you simply decided to find yourself in the tragic contemplation
                of death?

who else is there? who is with you?
how many poets and writers are hiding in the windows?
who did I lose sight of
when the cart took another detour, a sharp turn?

oh, it was a wonderful time, fellas
somewhere out there, on the top shelf of shelf seven on the left
there's some packaged Sofits
no one's taking them-the price is too high


  12
  03:00

tprruh! We're slowing down at the cash register, my Rocinante
we've got to put everything we've got on the tape
even if it's not much in seven years of wandering
but it's all been there and it's worth the price

I think Supermarket Security is approaching us
we're busted, they're taking us to Division
these servants of the Ministry have found out we're free
which means we'll have to be destroyed without a trace

"oh, I have nothing to pay you gentlemen!
I have nothing but my blood, my efforts
take all you want, skin me
please, hang my scalp in Marx Square between the two shopping malls!"

they take us in different directions
the poet Khlebnikov and the poet Vakhrin are taken in the next funnel
the latter is badly beaten, Khlebnikov is coughing up blood
they're taking me to the forest, they'll make them dig my grave




  poem "Ronin"
  (pt.3. The Judgment of Suffering)
  Book of Honor and Reality
  ;

 33

poppy field of Glory
the greenhouse of our footprints
orchids still smell of Death


 34

doing It to ourselves
do it to others
never admit it to yourself


 35

when I died
people made sure
that no one would notice – why


 36

the hardest part is watching
the apprentice turns into the Master
as a lover dies


 37

training frees the mind
the crane song of the bomber
worship the Stone


 38

I can't help but feel lost
when I look at the running waters
while the red leaves swirl in them


 39

size and style are meaningless
if your blade doesn't stab you right in the heart
if you miss, technique is an empty word


 40

even the most beautiful woman
looking at a corpse by the bridge
stops pretending to be a ribbon in her hair


 41

you can't love and give up
you can't die and live
you can breathe while hiding under a pebble


 42

back in the city, look at the sun 
it's shifted on its axis to Sunset 
the scorpion is fishing for larvae 


 43

a lilac pollinates its fingers
the scent of spring, the perfume of Death
drinking sake with its killers


 44

in the temple autumn, gold on the paths
take the broom in hand, leave the blade behind the walls
larks sing of disarmament


 45

when the dearest person is near
you look up and see
the cloud releases its babies for the first time


 46

the warriors are already at the walls
they all have one thing waiting for them, we know it
the cloud is dropping shells, sowing death


 47

be yourself
stop time
sakura blossoms late


 48

to walk among the bodies 
stumbling over my own wounds
cricket will bury the remains




  poem of a new life


  13
  first step

the first step is always harder than the last
silent things speak to me in the language of Time
in the earth is quiet, in the earth is good
only the Raven disturbs me, he sings a black mass for me

as we're tangled up, so we're tangled up 
еhe cadaverous maggots have woven the Helmet of Terror on my head
my wreath of thorns, my laurel branch
I have wandered about the Square and dreamed of being killed unnoticed

where am I?
I think it is near the Tower
where there is no wind, i.e. the Empire of the Walls
where the Wheel of Fortune turns backwards

or maybe I'm in Vertkovskaya again?
in this nomad's juggernaut
the hands of the clock are mad and ticking like a heart
maybe I was never born at all?


  14
  second step

I look out, I see Mt.
the purple Forest of the Hangmen, The Lake of the Unforgiven
contempt is what the earth hides
I'm not resurrected, I just didn't die again

I have been lost sight of by the Vultures of Government
there are only crows and doves circling above me
they point the way to the North
they tell me "rise and go, Devterion"

oh, I just need to remember how the body works
activate my metabolism, the flow of my thoughts
but it turns out there's nothing left of me
I turned into an Absolute – into an Immortal Verse

I inhabit seas, rivers and oceans
forests, parks, plains, hills and mountains
cities, villages, capitals and empires
I am the wind developing the cold – my second step


  15
  third step

who awakened me? who is responsible for it?
who was so gentle with me, as if he were Death?
who gave me up? who is the True Traitor?
Life, are you? God's great illusion

I make a mistake, I take possession of human souls
I fill them with despair, then the happiness of discovery
I carry the Signs of Meaning, the symbolism of Truth
I am the trigram of Freedom, I am the Lost-Dearth-Found

oh, D. & T., when you translate this
please state at the end who was right
sign it, it was all real with the Author
in his delirium, in his hallucinations lies the Revelation

and anyway, friends, I don't really understand
what is the difference between the speeches of a madman
and the high poetry of William Blake
or whether I'm any different from Whitman or Solomon


  16
  black hotel, or 04:00

when I was awakened by the cries of the Dublin seagulls
I saw the Ghost speak of the death of literature
cutting through my eyelashes with the dawn, I dissected the womb of the sun
there was nothing but false light

"we are illuminated by darkness!" – that's what I scribbled on the wall
and then I left this back alley forever
Mirotel, Marx Square, morning
which turned out to be, in fact, the end of the night

when the first rockets hit the ground
I felt no jolt, only regret
when Death reigned and Life disappeared
I watched for a long time as the skyscrapers collapsed
 
when there was no one left at all
I pressed every doorknob
yes, the walls and the rooms themselves were gone
but every door has to go somewhere

and every
lead
into the void


 Nemel
 February 8-14, 2023
 Black Hotel




  poem "Ronin"
  (pt.4. The End of Suffering)
  Book of Death
  ;

 49

how little of the human being there is in a man
not enough words to describe it
the clutter of my senses


 50

when the bodies were burning
my heart burned doubly
he ashes rose above the Walls


 51

developing with flags
joining the battle banners
obeying the wind


 52

no more worries, no more thoughts
no more pain
serenity and pagoda


 53

looking over Okinawa
the homeland and the living
not understanding why I once woke up


 54

turn into a stream
is drifting to the North
with a warm breeze conquering the Cold


 55

the mirror beats
the warrior wakes up shivering
something's wrong in his chest


 56

the mirror is beating
the breath stops
a butterfly spreads its wings


  ;

 57

out of
into something-out of something
the wheel goes round and round


 58

way
my
nihil


 59

pretending to be a god
watching the cherry trees fall
tits in the infarcted sky

 60

song of tangled strands
amalgam knows the truth
there is emptiness and the rest


 61

graveyard of chewed nails
burial ground of earwax
pigsty of human ashes


 62

what will be left behind?
the battle banners of the clan, a death hokku?
or an empty space above the gravestone?


 63

I laid down my arms
for this, I stand at the wall
crow, crow, it's not my fault, I'm guilty


 64

and I'm on the edge 
Infinity burns out behind me
the gates to the Black Hotel have opened


 Nemel
 February 7-13, 2023
 Black Hotel