domestic misdemeanors

Egg trays
latex gloves
musical condoms and postcards
soiled diapers
Planck’s constant.

She likes her neighbor next door, –
his canary likes her pussycat.

Kitchen cabinets
fire escape ladders
toilet orchestras
and bathtub operas.

“Our elevator doesn’t make any stops at the Purgatory”

new revolutions, –
same old regimes.

Same good old dead comrades, –
they fought for peace
and it peacefully disposed’em.

“All they needed was love”.

mouse droppings
a cotton candy
a strawberry dish soap.

I love you, – you love me,
I need a new rubber duck,
because the old one has moldy odor,
and hers needs a battery replaced.

Sticky-notes secrets
domestic misdemeanors.



The moment when some will learn
how to grow wings,
as their new limbs;
they’ll immediately spread them wide
and fly high to the sky;

and without having any bleak hue of guilt
will shit on the heads of those
who propagate potato-existentialism.

without any bleak hue of guilt, —
no, no.

a melancholy #4

inspired by Nick Cave

I take off my headphones
and Rakhmaninov sinks,
vacating some room for monotonous buzz.

(a fan is blowing dead air at my face.)
dead, because it’s missing you.

I put my glasses away,
on my desk,
near a fresh drop of tea on its surface.

I’m tired.

Tired of seeking The Truth,
(seeking you!)
between lines of code,
radio waves
and infinite loops
of daily news.

(massaging my forehead and eyes)
and again, thinking of you.

No, you didn’t call.
No, I didn’t forget how you look, —
I simply never knew.

Another moment lost, while I’m longing for you.

and another went into the abyss, —
lacking a meaning of you.

Where have you been all these years
while I was nourishing blues?

the inanity (part #7)

I’m patient.
Yes, I am patient.

I can calmly wait in the line to urinals,
and mumble “God’s gonna cut you down”,
while you’re struggling with your neglected prostatitis.

I can wait,
while the coldness of the restroom
is embracing my quiddity;
putting me in the center of the Universe
or its outskirts.
(depends on a ventilation).

I’m not Johnny Cash,
I’m not wearing black
I wasn’t blessed with calm bass-baritone.

but I can wait,
without knowing people’s faces
behind the toilet doors
or their shivering bodies
making a gestalt image of a macrocosm
(again, depends on a ventilation).

or only an exosomatic memory, —
recorded on the misted mirror.