Archive for the ‘я не понимаю’ Category

I wrote poetry.

They denounced me,

put me to “good use”,

sent me to prison.


The mirror lies,

I know it does,

camera lens too,

it’s “objective”:

your hope dies.




Your words hurt.

Perhaps you don’t realize,

but probably, I conclude, you do.

Perhaps you don’t realize *quite* how much your words hurt,

but, then again, knowing you, you likely hope for even more.

Constantly wanting to even the score,

no, surpass!

Like you said, yesterday:






“You wrote this shit?” he asked, standing over me, pages in hand.

I remained silent.

He repeated himself.

“Yes, I wrote that shit,” I replied, detached.

“Some of it, weirdly, I like. Most of it, though, is confusing, incoherent, shit. Shit which I don’t understand.”

I turned my head and sighed: “It’s a jigsaw, you have to put the pieces together. Think of it as interactive reading.”

“Think? I don’t want to think! And I sure as hell don’t wanna interact with a twisted little bitch like you!” he bellowed, laughing, demeaning, walking away.





Yes, that’s the word.


it takes some time…




When futurity turns into maturity,

when tomorrow becomes yesterday,

you wake up in a cell,

and you feel you have nothing left to hope for.

They lock the door,

they staple your feet to the floor,

and force you to watch the same race,

turgid time, after turgid time,

your least favorite Biathlete ever,

winning, yet again.

30cm TV screen, all too large,

you took a wrong turn

after the Hermitage.





I was amazed.

In my dream

the village elder told me that there had once been a time, long ago,

when life, society and human interaction had been about something other than a power-trip and asserting one’s own interests,


when the day-to-day struggle wasn’t futile,

when we valued what was without and within.

Back when we were “backwards”.

Imagine my chagrin.




Is the past ever


completely past?




Do you remember when the exception

became the rule?

An exact moment,

a sliding scale?

Life’s progression,

travesty and pain,

your enthusiasm wanes

matures: disdain.

Child-like excitement,

excess, indulgence…

Joie de vivre…

Becomes adult depression,



with information,


and mortification.


some sunsets

are not worth watching.




He told me I needed to think like a man,

if I wanted to be a success in this world.

And then he said goodbye.

I watched him go into the men’s toilets

and I imagined that he would probably wash his hands after touching the door, before he would touch his dick, to piss into the urinal. And then he would walk out, opening the door, without washing his hands because everyone else should feel honored to touch something that his hand, which has touched his dick, has touched in turn. And then he would deliberately wipe his hands on the back on his pants before walking on, purposefully, into the bowels of the complex.

Mr. Boss.