«интеллектуальный деликатес запретных смыслов» 

The Calvary

You stand still, so wet between the thighs.
And I see sweetest salt in your eyes.
The Sun explodes through my poor chest.
And your gaze makes me feel blessed.
My heart is beating so madly,
Choked with molten gold.
You watch your destiny in my hands.
This vision makes you so hot.
And I wish I were so mighty
To own you under my boots.
But you are a seed and you can
Penetrate my chest with your roots.
Your still waters boil the fiends
In the teapot, prepared for lunch.
Wine fills the poisonous cups.
With pearls into your womb I come.
I teach you my DNA.
You raise these demons of mine.
Then you drive spikes through their hearts;
Trust, you bury alive.
Your hair is coiling like snakes.
Pandora's box of my reign
Is open.

And you are to blame.
You break time into dust.
You weep with the tears of mint.
I want to put you in chains,
To carve your forehead with «SLAVE»…
I want you.
Stop and exhale.
The air is fresh. Radiation.
You’re loyal like a Great Dane.
You expect from me certain actions.
You sow the poppies- «Inhale!»
You come to me.
And you bend your knees.
My saliva turns to a stake, like a sword.
I appeal for mercy at the cockcrow.
Domination. I am your God.
But something tells me — I am ensnared.
Something tells me — I am in distress.
I wish I could simply run out.
My heart throbs like a bird in my chest.
My legs are becoming rubbery.
You will leave and I will fall dead.
And no poppies can promise recovery.
Your grip has grown loose.

To escape! The fire expired!
But suddenly…  
I'm now in the place of your slave
And I bear my cross to the Calvary.

2017

The Sabbat

I ask The Fall for the cozy feast
Inside my dark and shabby house,
To open pages and the wounds,
To dance and burn sad truths in fires.

I'll organize the Sabbat rite,
And let it be as sweet as honey.
Let melt the ice in twinkling eyes
And lipstick be so dark and winy!

I ask the Fall for the saddest song.
I let Satyr tear my hips.
I'm eager for the rain to fall,
The sky to darken, and you to pierce.

I ask The Fall for the cozy feast
Let summer go to Neverland.
The bitter grass smells oh so spicy…
Dance me, collapsing what was planned.

2017

What is beauty?

— What is beauty, my dear Lord?
— Banks of snow on the graves,
Bullfinches' bloody craws,
Candle fever in your hands.

— What is silence?
— It’s the Moon,
Stiffened wax on pallid skin,
Dreams devouring your mind,
Gentle whisper of the Doom.

What is kindness, my dear Lord?
Kindness is the bullet's speed
That retains the smile on face
As you're falling down to bleed.

As darkness falls  

As darkness falls,
Protect my flame
From wicked skies
That fall with rain,
From bitter tears
Burning my cheeks,
From a restless whisper on my lips.

Beseech the skies
To be so pure,
The Moon could rise
Wounds could be cured.
The sea could breathe,
The earth could talk,
Beseech the skies so dim with smoke.

Ignite my blood
With eerie sparks,
For me to rush
Into your dark, and to awake
From being numb,
To make me fly, and make me crawl.

As darkness falls,
Glass of my heart
Will fill with oozing
Murky blood.
Let tears burn
My cheeks to bones.
Be murderer as darkness falls.

2015

The Werewolf

The sunset has faded. You watch my salute.
Each sprout of libido is watered by sap of lust.
Like a werewolf hankering after sweet fruit
You gnaw my bones, seduced with the moonlight.

Cannibalism. Devour your own reflection.
A poisonous sting of the wasp is so astute.
Honey of bright pain pierces your core like an injection,
Exuding to the throat with red, salty dew.

Your monstrous heart feels like a burden.
You try to pull out the ill-fated magnet from your chest.
The tortured blood clot you turn into stone.
Silence feeds lungs. Ignorance is blessed.

But the dawn is wounded. The fog licks the grass.
Haze of white ashes milks crimson lands.
Black as a sloe, the sky embraces the landscape of rust
Unclothing the red sun like, а gorgeous breast.

Onset of the wind falls upon golden woods.
Its music is heard between organ-pipes of amber birches.
Let the old bog be healed like a wound,
When the willow weeps like a loyal believer  in church.

Innocent joy! It could have never been different.
Through the broken ribs one can see the hematoma of space.
I have passed the game, being a renegade scholar and
A gallery god in the theater of unacted plays.

2017