The song I sung has taken a turn ,
what once was evil, now had to burn .
With all the spirit and nature in guide ,
not all is ours, what we provide ,
to free the soul from burden of hell,
and nothing humane-WELL ! WELL! WELL!
The sight and motto to be the "GOOD",
still standing there ,where you once stood ?
Kept the people by your side ?
But nothing's left except that PRIDE .
Insane , how it worked on death ?
Body is freed and the soul at debt .
The chemtrails running white on blue,
has been once me ,now it's you .
Vibrating air and sleeky wind,
couldn't erase what has been sinned.

I had a dream about you
It wasn't sad, it wasn't joyful
It wasn't even blue

Oddly I dreamt of you as villian
Hands around my brother's neck
Eyes full of cruel intent

Though the nightmare left me shaken
I'd rather dream of you again
Than be rudely awaken

I climbed out of a well
and swore
I’d never go back.

But this one is different—
it carries
the bitter taste
of suffering.

Девушка с шикарным задом
Зашла в покой Сарданапала,
За дверью неприглядно пала:
— А ну, на четвереньки встать!
И в этом кружеве — напалмом —
В упряжку бала запрягал он
Всех тех, что с миленьким ебалом:
— Так ты — ебать или копать?

Yaroslav Kulikovsky. Paris, 2019 (c).

Fee-fi-fo-fum— as we weighed love by
an empty ounce, and paid it all back by this
sore pound. They yell: “come now or begone,”
and if you can’t produce the sum for what’s
been done; flee to fine some… or find none.

An anguish in fornication, and a touch that speaks,
but means nothing at all. No real stimulation—
just hunger in the guise of heat, and shame where
love was meant to meet. As some feather-dust their
guilt, pretending to have clean intentions. But we’ve
only used each other to air out our frustrations.

These old recycled themes; ******* from peers,
spilling from worn-out jeans, and spreading
dreams like genes, without real meaning in between
the fabric of time.

But tell me, do you still not see the giant problem?
Or are you too big for yourself, to fully measure up
to your own faults?

Glass tears dance on the lawn of dreams –
offered sweetness at hand; while the Beast
breathes fire over frost; black fur coiled in winter’s
chill, his warmth a lie dressed in comfort.

He offers blindness as a blessing, the bliss
of the thoughtless path. In the silence of white
winter, you take his claw, mistaking it for a hand.
“To die for”—a morbid metaphor— what is the gift
of a Beast meant for?

Around him, the dancing lich spins— leeches
birthed  from tombs of need. A cliff that clefts;
as a cleft lip cannot speak the truth, it only bleeds.
Closed eyes cannot paint the dark—
but they stay loyal  to its canvas.

Left bereft—travelers avoid certain subjects:
being sick of yourself, tasting your own *****.
But hush now— we’ll skip the topic. Change the
subject. And bury that scent.

As she was sent; and of all the objects she takes
from the Beast—he cures grief with a sugar-coated sting.
But bittersweet is still a shade of sweet, it rots your teeth,
and maybe he works with the tooth fairy to collect what
decay leaves behind.

But in the cold, no one heals— they run to the hills,
as their heels are clicking in panic of snow-bitten ground.
Perhaps this time, Little Red took the wrong road—
and the wolf she met, has grown hungrier from
feasting quietly on empty bones.

      ....there's no-one to save her at all.

Sé que si te veo,
vos me mirarías feo,
y me preguntarías:
¿Así de mierda me volví?

Yo te diría sí,
y lo siento mucho por ser así.
Está bien si me odias,
yo también me odio.

No pude cumplir tus sueños,
y ahora me he vuelto
una simple máquina
que solo reacciona
a lo que le sucede.

Pero dejó de pensar
en su bienestar
y en los lazos que tiene.

Le dio igual sus amistades,
y se quedó solo
pensando en lo académico.

Lo siento.

No soy la persona
que tú querías que fuera.
Me mirarías
y solo golpearías mi cabeza,
y sé que,
aunque estés pequeña,
tratarías de matarme.

Matar a un adolescente
que su alma está muerta,
y solo se volvió
un cadáver andante.

Sigh! It comes like a train — an express line through
my thoughts, no stops, no warnings. Oh how
DEPRESSION clips at my heels, familiar as shadow,
unwelcome as memory. Defeated — like sunlight
pressed to branches too burdened to bloom. My heart
hangs in moss — heavy, strangled in the green silence
of old grief.

Tears lean like leafless trees, bowed in all directions,
yet rooted in a place with no direction — a forest dying
quietly, where even the familiar trails feel like ghost
roads I no longer recognize.

I feel short of worth — like coins counted in silence,
never enough to buy the currency of being loved.
I glow in daylight, but dusk takes its due —
and now I dim with every breath.

I try to speak, but end up forcing books down my throat,
pages crammed with words I never learned to say.
But you’ll never see me cry in public — I’m an island
left off every map, burying bottle messages even
I won’t recover.

I have so much hopeful words for others, but I’m
a stack of unread stories to myself; a pen that dries
before I can name the ache.

And somewhere inside —I find a red box with hidden
compartments, each one meant to hold something sacred.
But they echo when I open them — soft, hollow
reminders that even my soul has forgotten how
to fill its space.