the idylie of two beloved
who are not discriminated
neither by each other
not by others
because of their gender
isnt it utopy?
Ask by some gay paars,
whether they ever forget
how they anounnced about their love
to their  orthodox parents...
what a hidden pain..
which always will remain
ask by the woman in suburb
how many *******
devastated her heart
before she met this handsome practical guy
who she may not really love
but cherish just the appereance of love
in form of elementar peace at home
without daily scandal
How oft we play satisfied when
in reality cats in the soul scratch
sometime there is no sight
how to difference lovely clotherness
from the chain of compomise
which people care
with clothed eyes.
happy love relation is rare
but luckely they are, they do exist.
but what about this phenomen like friendship?
Almost everybody would say
she/he have good friends
the paradox consist only in a fact
that modern life in the west
never  put this
kinship on exam
since people are financelly independent
other else too, when they clients of the dole
and live from welfare
they are secured
there is no situation happens
that friend must to sell their car, or
put a ring from a finger
to salvate their friend from some calamity..
those friendship mostly base on
pleasant time spent together
out of any mutual bonds...
but friendship to its limit
is yet more dangerous
than a love to its limit.
Therefore such claim hardly exist
„friends“ mostly knows very well
where the limit of their mutual aid
this awareness is tragic,
especially utopic is true friendship
between male and female
to certain point it works
but when someone of both
step on thin ice
for example of unanswered love
to somebody else
here patience of friend ends
who want support dream of
friend
who is desperated lover
when reality shows here is dead end
but true friend would help by any „utopical“ situation
she/he will find any remedy and make magic thing happen.
And friendship between artists
isnt it where should be especial tight bond?
„I love you when you show“
it is what observation say of such very bonds..
today artists think they were gods themself
they curate the life of mortal in their work
and give no **** when their good deed
will not being mirrored in the art
the time of unique like Simone Weil expired
and when such altrusit with a keen sense for human justice
somewhere still live
they will die young like she did
or will be driven insane.
And we will never know about their dream
their fight, their resistance
because they were not writer or philosopher
like Simone Weil ocasionally was.
you will say this piece is written by
sheer frustrated one.
You exactly didnt guess.
Yes of cause I am frustrated one
but i find satisfaction balance
not to dream about true friendship
because such adjectiv is too relative
anyway what is true friendship to my graspe
Is possible meet only in myths
but though to thousandth time dare in:

imagine friendship
imagine mutual creation
imagine peace

to establish an initiative  
for protection of gentleness?
follow the patterns of what does call joy in buddhism?  
joy is always innocent
I follow your footsteps  
through the dark tunnel  
in the shimmering light
and wonder what a courage  
you bring towards any jeopardy
which hunts you, my queer peer, behind any conner
in this fallocentric world

West reality made so
that people forced to consume
whatever material or unmaterial goods
here any protest is legalised
in form of demo
which is necessary surround by police
northeless there are people exist who are illegal
beside of refugees from east lands
there also socalled  insane people
who are locked in closed loony bin
or hunted like amok
untill they really get insane
if you take separately each after other
their fate and observe it precise
you will find there all the evil of
patriarchal repression
what is the consequence of capitalism
patriarchal repression
which is so masterfully comuflaged in west
but since the victims, the renegades live on rand of society
no one ever take their lifes and deaths under lenses
just example:
feminists dont fight for the rights of the debased woman
 in their neigbourhood
but just speculate about arbitrageness in Iran
not ever able to change something in afar lands
they simply ignore evil which happens beside them
every day, every night
there is pseudo-publicity in capitalism
since those who rebel against
become mostly so oppressed
that they never ever get any chance to
speak out loud
and revenge!
While those anarchists and punks
who squats in city and towns
will never give political asylum
to the one who's life circumtances
penetrate to be betrayed by friends
living on the streets and parks
and hunted by psychiatry
during anarchists and punks are not
real activists of underground
but just kind of subculture
which live quite comfortably in capitalism
it just funky to be anarchist or punk
and nobody knows how they will act
in critical situation
I lost my believe on socalled leftists
in fact they are same equal part of society
like bankers or yuppies
with a difference that they
pretend  they still had some ideals!
known to many
believed by the few as
the truth
Accordingly my individual struggle their claim
is nothing as fallacy
whom believe? Whom with resist in action?
Where hides real iconoclasts?

there was a lonely poet
who bled his sonets to the imaginary Muse
he had never met
and gave it read to the  outcast
he met hanging on the streets and some bars..
once he met there a goddess-like looking femme
wholy destitute, he imediatly felt in love
love to the marvelous *******
it was love from first glance

yes, she was a harlot
who is usually  short on time
he somehow managed
to afford her time
in motel
with blind windows
he came
and said her he want just
drink with her wine
on what, she wanted to throw him away
but he trembled by every nerv
and she said ok,
I will meet you after work
we will drink tea
she denied the hand reaching her money
and in two hours they met again

the man shined radiant
like he catched blue bird
she was tired she asked him
what do you want?
He tell, I want paint you in words
Not for you give me a kiss
Nor for you answer on my instant love
I love you just because I dont know you yet...
she laughed...
well, ok..
you wish to know me
out to touch me?
say, why are you so afraid?
He tald,   Oh, no, I afraid nothing,
since i have nothing to loose..
but in this life I feel the immerse grief..
my mother will never love me
in the way I need
said he, and tear shed on his cheek..
the mistress looked full of intimidation on him..
she seems never sow the man tears..
and he cried suddenly so bitter that she
fehlt eerie,
this big child touched the long forgotten string of her
heart and she also began to cry..
so they cried together  quite long time
poet took her hand
and they tenderly interwined the fingers..
she said, I didnt cried for eternity,
I thought all my feelings are dead.
My mother never loved me too
but because of this i never cried or fehlt any regret...
you are so vulnerable, my stranger..
you awaking me feel something beside
my only fact, that  I am luxurious toy for the spity men
let me show you my very ****..
you will perhaps recognise that I cant be your girl...
I didnt deserve this tender tears
I am Alaska, I am numb, cold, yet I am ok with that.

No, please, dont speak bad of yourself,
I will write for you funny poems
about wolfs, sheeps, dogs and cats..
your heart will slowly melt and mend,
you will again feel and may be one day
you will let you be my lovely concubine...
I joke, he added..

but howeverwhy.. god works on mysterious ways..

since that day poet find his true muse
and she, with her wanton delight, find a waiter for her sleeping heart
this is of cause just a fairytale, but somewhere near or far away
somewhere may be it happened in real life.

he would may love me would I be only cynic, uttering sarcastic words in between of next and next speedball

iron bars on windows
cheapest radiowave loud from loudspeakers
in smoking room
spreading
nonstop most tasteless songs
shouts, giggling and whispers and cries
mixed in the air
swallowing ugly pills under severe control of ugly sanitarian
pills from which you become weak, weary and zombies-like
to not commit suicide is not allowed
to keep glass bottles
no laptop allowed
10 minutes walk a day
and this only with attendance of
medical personal
stupid graffities on the walls of toilets and
smoking room
scarying
anything about punishment of ******* god
surely made not by patients
but belong to „estimated inventary“
the most horror procedure
is doctor visit at every morn
for so-called conversation
you, even not obsessed with suicide
would wish to hang yourself
from unability to cut doc' s throat
so spoke Antonin Artaud
who spent 9years in closed insane asylum in France
while Ezra Pound spent over 12 years in Washington D.C. Mental ward
me spent „only“ 6 months
but i pretty sure that this joy is worse than
be locked in jail
where you at least know what a ******* crime you supposed to commit
me unemployed dadaist was locked by catching by police spraying graffity
in Berlin, which called „FREE PIDGIN!“
reason enough to being diagnosed and
poisoned by legal drugs

we live indeed in society where freedom of speech rules
haha
it was modest trial to tell literally of the darkest terror: loony bin

self inflicted torture
sadistic sensation
masochistic sin
****** up hallucination

as tethered thrall
trembling for admission
succumbed balladeer
in your realms of inquisition

scarlet tainted skin
twisted anticipation
the evil of the heart
my dark imagination

translation from russian by rolanda


                                                   E.К
I write you from ex-colonia
grounded twenty centuries ago
by romans-sounds like a symphony
for hyperborean ear, hundred time
increased distance till addressee.
Looks like Agrippa knew what she did
the sister, worth by her madness of her brother.
Further cinematograph-**** body
bent and etc..accordingly screenplay
maid lapping in marble bathtube
horns leads triumphal aria
with a long sound. On the backstage
usual complaining on the fate,
tangent glance to the east,
muscle of cease  walk
the female wolf her concrete ******,
snapping, moving back to the building of arsenale
lost fatten twins.
I recollect what you didnt finish to say me
closing second door on the bolt,
on same spot there is a snow, cover up Prachechnij bridge
panorama of river, filled up by ice,
something with tear through two thousand miles
or old age with saged belly.
In our age, verticals are
soaring unreachable, slipping to result
of life, just right to dress on sandals
but hardly happens to slip into toga.
Invariable law of falling drops
down, no matter- fontain, rain, ******.
Harbour of postscript...rats storm the ship.
Funeral office offers moire
from spring collection for upholstery of
coffins, grief on the faces of personals,
just in time served coffee with cream
soften disaster of final account.
I write you, for what? - after victory
of foreign football team
from the closeness of prosperous summer,
connected Alps and Andes
by wave of psychose from tv,
inflicted by joy of superiority
above..(not clear what of), and their poses
of victors is sign of ugliness
from point of view of observer-
old neurasthenic and misantrope.
Contemplating fly of pterodactyl
by eye of stamped cyclop,
gilded **** on short spike of chirch
scream by voice of Luter:
"Be blessed folks cars!",
and  morning flow down by sunrise on wood

by Dmitrij Poparev

petal of clover's leaf  is
what onto you guess
whether he loves you or not
rolling memory of your being
is forgotten by everyone and wholly nameless
in boredom you slapped the moth
your ****** explains quite something
about complexity of your soul

trudging from lombard
pawned ring
to pay back long debt

Esta es mi vida.

wonderful friend sent a letter:
dont send me poems
I dont love poetry

Caminando por la calles.

On the streets Lanterns
blinding  eyes
while I need darkness

Yo tener enemigos en todos el mundo

letter from court
to pay penalty 1200 euro
for spraying graffities in Friedrichshain


Esta mi vida es afuera un campos de batalla.


i am hungry
I pick from some wheelchair near entrance of supermarket
one banan
towards me run and attacks me a huge drunkard
beat out from my hands banan
slaps in brow
and I fall on snowed pavement
feel no pains
he stays over me and yell: Sie klaute banane, Nutte!!
I low whisper: yourself schweine backe..
jump from spot and imaginary bite the **** of his imaginary gun

El mundo es maravilloso

I possess no more a laptop
i spilled wine on it
being taken aback of one scene of pure *******
of one lovely  guest in my flat
how now to write manifesting defending verses?

Politico de mierda que gobierna el pais.

Internet shop
whole night over
beneath of buzzing of casino machines
I sit and write the letter to imaginary dad
to imaginary lovely mom
to sweet sister or brother
well,  I have nobody of them
though would I be orphan
I guess my existence were not so dismal

Yo tengo el mi fierro por disparar.

I writing email to american situationist
his nickname is rasputin
I saying him, that I am situationist
and I am recently became persona non-grata
and I better die than
land in loony-bin
need your aid.
he answers with a link about  a war in Irak
my solar plexus clenchs tight

Puta yo no necesita usted!

Esta mi maniera,
Caminando por la calles,
Listo para morir,
Esta mi vida es terminada.

*

Friedrichshain- urban district in Berlin
Sie klaute banane, Nutte!- she stole a banan, *****!(german)
schweine backe- pig's **** (german)

(thank you Alessandro P. for lesson in spanish)

Esta es mi vida.    This is my life.
Caminando por la calles.  Walk on the streets
Yo tener enemigos en todos el mundo.I have enemies allover the world
Esta mi vida es afuera un campos de batalla.This is my life outside for the battlefield    
    
El mundo es maravilloso   The world is beautiful
Politico de mierda que gobierna el pais. Politic in this land is merde
Yo tengo el mi fierro por disparar. I have my iron for shooting
Puta yo no necesita usted.  *****, I dont need you


Esta mi maniera,
Caminando por la calles,
Listo para morir,
Esta mi vida es terminada:


this is my attitude
walking through the streets
to search for death
my life is finished

True Friends
A long time ago in China there were two friends, one who played the harp skilfully and one who listen skillfully.
When the one played or sang about a mountain, the other would say: "I can see the mountain before us."
When the one played about water, the listener would exclaim: "Here is the running stream!"
But the listener fell sick and died. The first friend cut the strings of his harp and never played again. Since that time the cutting of harp strings has always been a sign of intimate friendship.

                                                               ­                                  From „ Zen flesh, Zen bones“*


the gallery of your luscious qualities
do indeed killing me
there is no one scolding you
like they doing on me
for such nonsenseal guilt, that
i sometimes  use imaginary
but alas it happens far seldom
usually i am indeed just infinitely
diminutiv towards your very boldship
the severe prose of life dont
let write astute  fantasies
yet my punk *** is vernacular towards
your upperclassed way to speak
its like dog's bark near
your charming chant of melodies
to be befriended with you
yet listen your compliments
I am getting perplexed
cuz i see you stiff giggling on me
you would better doubt me for my narrow horizon
where i type only about hopelessely of resistance
yet about that love is dead
how bore!!
it trully not what may enterntain!

Better I would dont coment and dont write anymore
Better I would skimp this beggarly text
instead only  picking nose behind of barricade
and let you hear nix beside my
Perro Semihundido's
WOOF!WOOF!WOOF!

….but, I wrote this lolololong locomotive,
since its obviously my pretty fun to ******* myself
bye

what a value to writing earnst
what a value to stay insane
what a value awaking the pains
what a value attack with offence
what a value to stay stiff cold
what a value to play bold
the kaleidoscope of every state of feel
any of which is void to display
no to go in depth of deny
lets not to scary so amiable guy
under all that chain of trials
is the same end:
in the best case you will be eager consummated
but never will face you any aid on revenge

since even in underground samurai are dead

i was tald
to not any more write
any political manifested verses
allegedly it is boring and out of times
instead i was recommended to write just about love
this opinion of the experienced poet himself
made me fall into confusion
isnt anything interconnected?
The love fails sometimes because
of quite political treason
isnt it a reason
to revenge
to rage
to rebel?

your brittle splendour
stashed passion
behind of beautiful iced eyes
your coldness is your hotness
just stranger wouldnt guess that
you care in your heart the hearts of all you loved
no one happy end throughout ****** dramas
you used to live in deluge of feelings
now the ***** is your friend which heal you
in your magnificent solitude
with bunch of drunk memoirs . 
you jeer on this young guy
who fell in love with you, elderly woman
now you cherish your sovereignity
and  no longer wish to be the muse of twisted masters

red** is color of those who are gypsy-heart
it's how rainbow starts
orange is string of saturated nerve
yellow : color for  spectacular or fearfull fellow
green : equanimity is a queen
azure :realm  of elusive dreams
blue: the sadness and melancholy is within
purple is where red and blue melt:
elation of spiritual realm and
the most psychodelic sense, its how the rainbow ends

for the broken-hearted
is this song
please dont be upset, darling
dont let you anylonger be teased and displeased
look on the shipwreck of your love
like on the new chance
you sure wont make the same mistake twice
be blessed and find the way
find the patience and the bliss
to give it to the one
who deserves your true love
these people you knew before
wont be around you anymore
you will walk to the willows and waterfalls
from the nature you will find new force
from the nature you will find new force
from the nature you will find new force

until dead end
i starred on one ad
in the subway
it speaks: „love is not a an accident“
it was partners-mediation project
printed on the huge red coloured desk

what is else is love if
not an accident?

either it cause lasting elation
or it inflict luv-syndrome-disease

love is her majesty accident!

how ever PR guys are always right
they rent spots on streets, subways and internet
not  for fun!

much honester is just an ad of call girl
she at least doesnt make any brain wash,
but just sales her ***.

I know it, since once I was one.

what can tortured lonely creator do to break free?
To get rid of all his oppressors and get into  equanimity
the answer is single: to write, sculpt or paint!
but what is when he is droven mad?
Michel Foucault said that nobody yet have created something
by staying in madness..

what else?
Write letters,letters, letters, untill you see how superficial or ****** up are your addressees?
It will end in loony bin
where psychiatric terror make from him a aboulic lamb
he remain being broken forever untill this magic moment
if he will be so lucky to meet a friend
such real friend who gift him understanding
understanding is only salvation
understanding is only solution
understanding is only freedom

„one two three“ go to boulangerie
„four five six“ may be write letter to missis x
„seven eight nine“ my call you deny
„ten eleven twelve“ …i slowly despise rhymes with sheer vengeance..

out of coquetry and out of bravado, i desist our memory,  i will turn to enter
in a new day, without prescribed lies and tainted tricks, without whens without whys, without "be blue" commands and daily ****** „luv-syndrome-disease“
& what in particular corrupts the works and days:
without nasty repressive syndrome as consequence of how ugly artistic comradeship can be.
Yah. just depart towards unknown, under guiding of trembling crescent,
to whatever oddness i will might to face..
O it wont  be worse i still guess...
something wrong with me?
so strangely i rejoice out of any certain cause.. ?
tis is may be shy anticipation of the delight which the read of some few subterranean poems can sometimes make ?
is there „land in sight“?
is here some flower to breath in?
even if it merely about basking in darkness,
not alone, but with sojourner..
my nonsense, your nods, isnt it slightly utopia?
O b s c u r i t y  i s  o u r  r e w a r d. seem be the single remnants to chant..
vomiting and scolding abundance is what only will remain to realize?
isnt it kind of tryst which satisfy the starving one at best..?
O to large demand!.., but still
towards all of futility my worn heart still embrace
the solemnity of unknown..
wish to inhale the solemnity of unknown..
to  enshroud myself with solemnity of unknown..
to chock on solemnity of unknown..

..as long as poetry is yet not dead

the official art-scene..
what a huge dismal **** will you find there.

here is no comparison when you  
suddenly would have a rare luck
to discover on narrow roads  
some  indie creator  or some segregated lost poet
who's picks and words  
like little glowing stars
same amazing as fully undiscovered

in stages i observe
arduous lifting
it is the place where
upon a time
the ancient lover chased a nereid
in the waters of clear stream
she got goddess's spell and was turn into waters
through the sea the lover, god of river reached her
and they mingled in bewildered *******
untill wind had faned their moans
and embodied forever their love-celebration
in the minds of those who read this ancient myth..

Silence have thousand different voices
it can be scary
it can lift the air
it can utter appreciation
it can send an elation
it can dance,
it can destroy
it can mean insecurity, fear
or arrogance
it can invite to fight
it can require the note of hate or of love
if you long enough were connect
with a being who listen read and watch
but didnt talk
you slowly gather the compendium of meanings
what hides behind of curtain of it majesty silence
yes silence has thousand voices
dont you believe it?
Is it a strange speech?
Do you imply me for insane?

In thousand years we become extinct
we will fly in nowhere traceless
but now we have  fun  like kings
dancing in sand
telling lore, drinking wine
smoke ****, frying *****
and at nights we sing: I want die

you are my conundrum
what ever i do to reveal to my understanding your core
is in void
why only I love you? Liar, you can sing all kinds of the gentle songs

once i awoke and suddenly
got kinda satori :
„i dont love you anymore“.
this is salvation from
the labyrinth of sorrow
I will again enjoy the rays of light
and black coffee and the walk
few days went by, since I tattooed
in my mind this formula
„i dont love you anymore“
but all these little joys (in the days without you)
were so transient
they meant nothing
in comparison
with my all-colored feelings to you.
Even the pain is like a petal of flower
I grasped that „i dont love you“ just doesnt work
and I write you a thousand and second time
how much happens between us-till to deafness
I remember so much-of cause in vain.
songs unsung, unspoken words and phrases
Sobs and screams and jokes in which you
Still come true , you came
you didnt lost on the bend of fate ....
in thousand second time I count the days
of being blue, they all without you.

sway,sway ash-green foliage
           the wind caress you not occasionally
                striped cat looks with his phosphorescent eyes on
                        flying bird
how dead should I be
  for  
       you give me
                    your silky tenderness
lock of your wheaten hair I hide
             in the dried spring
   to visit it once a month
                   to listen an echo of your crane's soul

confusion in my head
my silent desire
drives me in firing elation out of any goal
i murmur the words which i search
which never find your heart
you always find a trick
to alienate situation
moreover you are far away
and there is nothing I can explain
just by expression of my eyes or corner of my mouth
tree and branches and rivers winds, seas and fields
on different places  
heard my prayer
but not you, my dearest dear

Your heart is cool
your glance is derisive
there is no secret for you
neither in sunrise, nor in death of moon
nor in eyes of hero..

You wanna just peace?
with me, such a tease?
No, you better be warrior
you better show me your keen teeth
thereby i may trust you, dear baby..