~ Valery Lipnevich ~

along the perch of reality,
we, ordinary,
walk from the tale of yesterday
into the tale of tomorrow

today –
is the only thing
we cannot be rid of

kisses rustle like leaves
and hide us like trees

along the slender perch of the summer night,
the sunrise is walking
like a boy with fishing rods,
crossing the murmuring river,
muffled by the haze

~ Vladimir Burich ~

In a coverall and mask,
with a monitor in hand,
I am going
to interview
the land.

Tell me,
what happened,
what got you poisoned?

Terminally ill,
make your last wish.

You don’t recognize me.
To you, I look like a vermin.

I don’t recognize you:
you've got covered
with ulcers
of human doings

~ Vladimir Burich ~

This one is catching Fortune,
zigzagging on his car,
surrounding it with phone calls,
pressing it,
condensing,
so as to squeeze it
into the narrow passage
of his mouth,
or
such that it touches
his body,
flows over his body.

That one
acts
kind of differently,
procuring:
meat – for his beast;
a heavy-built house with shutters – for his fears;
a fresh magazine with his photo – for his vanity;
a big-eyed son – for his paternity instinct.  

So,
having been freed,
redeemed,
he could stand in the universal Hyde Park
and scream
with his buttoned lips

~ Vladimir Burich ~

Where to keep the treasure?
Above the bed,
in full view of a casual partner?
Under the tomb
desecrated with **** swastikas?
Inside the book
that would be found and opened,
with his pure hands,
by a masturbator?
In the soul,
right beside cold shots?
Where,
where to keep the treasure?
You just grip it
and walk
without opening the fist

~ Vladimir Burich ~

It's amazing
how many faces he changes
during the day:
a mime
in the froth of morning wash;
a bird
on the porcelain perch
atop sewerage network;
a god
over a fresh newspaper;
a worm
by the bulletin board;
a dog
on the leash
of the lunch break.

In the evening he goes to sleep,
closes his eyes
as if entering
into the dark hall
of a movie theatre.
There
he sees himself
as a star

~ Vladimir Burich ~

The circle of head is inscribed
in the angle of elbow

No need
to prove
anything

~ Vladimir Burich ~

I listen
to the heartbeat of the pillow,

see
the mirror's
silent echo,

ponder
about the fish
from the prehistoric ocean

with the idea of human being
in their stomachs.