23.06.2024
Я запускаю цикл
Всё вновь идёт по кругу
Я вновь куда-то еду
Я вновь теряю друга
С надеждой я ждал смерти
И видимо дождался
Мой лимб - найти тебя
И вновь с тобой прощаться
Дождь пахнет как Москва
Зима - улицей Мира
В аду +35
И дорогое пиво
Я незаметно умер
И всё это придумал
Мой не логичен сон
Но очень остроумен
Я вновь проснусь в поту
И вырвусь из дурмана
Как вдруг я подскользнусь
И утону обратно
Я запускаю цикл
Мне снится переправа
И я вперёд гребу
Но плот плывёт обратно
Я вновь топчусь на месте
И отстаю от группы
Под стук колёс по рельсам
Я вновь теряю друга
Не станет новым год
И завтра не наступит
На день рождения торт
Со вкусом смертной скуки
Я потерял весло
Я пахну как пустырник
Опять звенит звонок
Опять жужжит будильник
Ты спишь с открытым ртом
И очень громко дышишь
Глотая в горле ком
Я становлюсь недвижим
Дождь пахнет как Москва
В тот день в начале мая
Я вновь вернусь туда
И сам того не зная
Мне недоступен рай
Недостижимо счастье
Мой лимб - найти себя
И вновь с собой прощаться
And I begin the cycle
Everything goes in circles
I’m riding the rails again
I’m losing a friend again
With hope I waited for death
And seems I got what I wanted
My limbo — finding you
And saying goodbye again
The rain smells like Moscow
The winter — like Mira Street
In hell the temperature’s thirty-five
And beer is expensive
I died without a sound
And built this all inside me
My dream has no clear logic
But still it’s strangely clever
I’ll wake up drenched in sweat
And break out of the haze
When suddenly I slip
And drown back in the waves
And I begin the cycle
I dream about a crossing
And row myself ahead
But the raft keeps going backward
I’m standing still again
And falling behind the group
Beneath the railway wheels
I’m losing a friend again
The New Year won’t arrive
And tomorrow won’t come either
A birthday cake will taste
Like mortal, endless boredom
I lost my only oar
I smell like motherwort
The bell is ringing again
The alarm is buzzing again
You sleep with open mouth
And breathe so very loudly
With a lump inside my throat
I turn into a statue
The rain smells like Moscow
On that day in early May
I’ll return there once more
Not knowing I’m on my way
Heaven is out of reach
Happiness can’t be captured
My limbo — finding myself
And saying goodbye again
Let me describe to you what my life looked like. I sit on a train to go to university. I lose my school friends, we don't text each other. I sit on a train and go back home for a holiday. I lose a couple of new friends and life goes on. I sit on a train and return to new place. I don't know yet that this was the last time I've seen my childhood best friend. He said he had to run from home when his stepdad knew he was not straight. I sit on a train and go back home for summer. I lose my weird punk friend, something changes during this period. I hop on a train, I go back. I will see my friend from kindergarten one more time in a random youtube video of a guy who visited my hometown and took interview of her boyfriend while she stands on the background, I only see her hands and hair but I recognize her straight away. But I will never see her in life. I hop on a train and go home for a winter holiday. I won't see a boy I had a crush on anymore. We share a name and temper and he is a bit annoing with this positivity thing, but he makes me smile. I keep photos from the day we went to a cat-cafe. I hope on a train and go back. My hometown is changing and billboards with propaganda are everywhere. I loved this place so much and I don't recognise it anymore. I take a train back home for summer and my friends at university are getting better while I'm still drawning. We don't understand each other most of the time. I hop on a train and go back, it's autumn, and i realize I love my best friend and he loves me back and we can't hide it anymore. He is married to my classmate. We were friends before this happened. I sit on a train and I'm going back home, it's winter. I'm depressed to the point of a caricature. I had so little movement the muscles of my lower back dissappeared and soon I will begin my fight with neurological pain. I don't hang out with my boys anymore and I don't know why. I get on a train. I'm about to realize that I don't want to stay here anymore. I will drop out soon. It's summer again and I told my family that I had to transition legally because that's the last chance. I'm terrified. I'm about to go through my own hell. My friends from university will text me once or twice. That's it. At least I live with my partner now. This time we are going home together. His mom died. We go back and next summer we move to Moscow. I lose every friend from that city I had. The cycle repeats itself over and over. I don't travel anymore, I hate trains.
25.05.2024
I'm stuck in the moment.
It wasn't that far.
I want to stay honest,
But just not right now.
It's stupid, it's hopless,
It's driving me nuts,
And that's where my braincells
Are acting like rats.
My brain is a rat's king,
Or even an emperor.
What's gonna happen
With the entrepreneur
Of myself?
Will there be crabs
With little hats
And clickaty clacks?
Did you know why their claws
Are different sizes?
They're actually cruel,
Those little bastards.
They can eat a human...
And I'm off the topic.
I will tell you everything,
And that's so ironic.
This moment is eating me
With no claws involved
I mean, it's not literal,
But that's not the point.
The point is dumber
Than you can imagine.
The point is less
Than the plot in "the Staging".
It's pointless even
To try to explain it.
I don't give consent
On your understanding.
I considered myself extroverted you know. I was really bad at keeping secrets, I had no concept of privacy. You know what changed this? A huge fucking trauma. Since then I feel that I can't talk so freely anymore. It's probably better for my safety in current circumstances but god, I miss myself so much. I miss this fucking dumb little moron who was completely unaware of danger and boundaries, who was about to grow up and adapt to normal life. I hope he is not gone completely. He would know how to talk about such things.
15.06.2023
А в криокамере холодно,
И сквозняк юго-западный.
Кто бежит от искомого,
Завтра - станет закадровым.
На стекле конденсат
Уже сменился кристаллами.
Всё же холодновато,
Я завернусь в одеяло.
По венам тянется туго
Раствор криопротектора:
Глицериновый суп
Полезен для моих клеток.
Мне покажется грубой
Вся писанина в заметках,
Себя оправдывать глупо -
Я утону в аругментах.
It's cold inside the cryochamber,
A southwesterly draft creeps through.
Whoever runs from what they seek
Will fade into the background tomorrow.
Condensation on the glass
Has already turned to crystals.
Still, it's getting far too cold—
I'll wrap myself in a blanket.
Through my veins there slowly flows
A cryoprotectant solution:
A glycerol soup
That's good for all my cells.
Every note I've ever written
Will strike me as unrefined.
It's foolish to defend myself—
I'll drown in my own arguments.
That's it. That's the feeling of being hopeless and helpless and unable to change anything or to make plans. You are not living, you are laying in a cryochamber. You barely remember that there is life outside. You do things that maybe even are disgusting for you, because you know that it's "good for you". You constantly revisit your past to see if you could change something or to make sure that at least you did the best you could and what you see feels like the worst thing possible. You worry too much, you sleep too little, you don't plan ahead and you are always unprepared. You have no future, you can't live in your present and your past is upsetting you. What can I say, that's my life. Advice? Don't get born trans and autistic in a country that is going to start a war at some point. Don't recommend, 0/10.
06.06.2023
Меня крестили младенцем,
Значит я с детства под богом
Да, сомнительна ценность,
Но хоть не подментован.
Да и в церкви я был
Ещё наверное крохой -
Щас с отвращеньем читаю
Об рпц-вских приколах.
I was baptized as a baby,
So I've been under God since childhood.
Sure, the value's up for debate,
But at least I wasn't owned by the cops.
I was in church as well,
Though I must've still been tiny—
Now I read with sheer disgust
About the Russian Church's bullshit.
Look I just don't know. It was so long ago that I barely remember what I was thinking about. Probably about killing myself because that's around the time when I was urgently working on changing my gender marker before it became impossible. I'm surprised I even had emotional capacity to think about anything else, really.
24.05.2023
Поэт не курица, но и не птица тоже.
Не волк в овечьей шкуре - лишь печаль под кожей.
Художник голоден, слаб и слегка простужен.
В лес не глядит. Даст бог - раз в день выглянет наружу.
А там вновь облачно и сыро, местами осадки,
Но и без этого от ветра в голове он зябнет.
В крыльях Зефира утонув, очнётся в океане.
Там, по течению гребя, дойдёт до своей ванны.
Хоть море по колено, хоть Эверест с плечо,
Погибель ждёт тебя у дома с розгой и бичом.
A poet is no chicken—nor a bird at all.
No wolf in sheep's clothing—only sorrow beneath the skin.
The artist's hungry, weak, and nursing a slight cold.
He never looks into the woods. God willing, once a day he'll step outside.
Out there it's cloudy still and damp, with showers here and there,
Though even without the rain, the wind leaves his mind shivering.
Lost in Zephyr's wings, he'll wake upon the ocean.
Drifting with the current, he'll find his way back to his bathtub.
Though the sea be knee-deep, though Everest reach only to your shoulder,
Doom waits for you at home with rod and whip in hand.
I need to explain some things in case someone not russian reads this. We say "A chicken is not a bird. A woman is not a human". It is sexist, yes, true. However the first half has a meaning by itself and is much more innocent. Also we say "Doesn't matter how well you feed a wolf, he is still looking into woods". "A see knee-deep" - is something we say when something is very easy, usually about a person. "He is so strong, for him everything is easy, even a see is knee-deep." That some linguistic context you might need to see exactly what I see here. (Also, I really need to fix the sizing of this, but I don't know how yet)
20.04.2023
Пепел на зубах,
Новые драки на мечах,
Жгучее солнце на плечах
У исполинских черепах,
Застой в трудах,
Среди тревог и старых ран,
Вновь нарисует новый план
Непробиваемый дурак.
Ум не принёс ему добра,
Хоть и ворчал он про себя,
Чужую мудрость мерил зря,
Тут белый флаг поднять пора.
Мигает свет, дрожит рука,
Слепая ярость,
Ночь без сна.
Ash upon my teeth,
Fresh battles fought with swords,
Scorching sunlight on the backs
Of giant tortoises,
Stagnation in my work,
Amid old wounds and constant fears,
Once more he'll sketch another plan—
That impenetrable fool.
His mind has brought him little good,
Though he would grumble to himself,
He measured by another's wisdom,
It's time to raise the white flag.
The light keeps flickering,
His hand begins to shake,
Blind fury,
Another sleepless night.
I stopped making up names at some point. I don't feel like they even need names. That's good enough that I have finished the poem itself, the name is secondary.
12.04.2023
Мы так любили играть в крестики-нолики, шашки,
Во взрослых, умных, отважных, людей с душой нараспашку,
В холодных многоэтажках тепло искали друг в друге
И в сигаретных затяжках, жали знакомые руки,
Пели знакомые песни, не выносили разлуки,
Мы говорили о смерти, с ума сходили от скуки,
Ругались матом и тщетно стелили умные штуки,
А утром шли по делам, гладив приличные брюки.
We loved playing tic-tac-toe and checkers,
Playing grown-ups, clever, fearless,
People wearing open hearts.
In cold apartment blocks we'd search
For warmth inside each other's arms,
And in the drag of cigarettes.
We'd shake familiar hands,
We'd sing familiar songs,
Couldn't bear to be apart.
We talked about death,
Went half-mad from boredom,
Swore like sailors,
Spun clever words that led nowhere.
Then, come morning,
We'd iron our decent trousers
And go about our day.
The english version has more lines because it seems like this one is really hard to translate without losing the rythm. That's one of the good ones too. It's about my friends from my "the Aerospace university era". I miss them almost every day.
30.03.2023
Обратный захват серотонина.
Обратный захват с переворотом.
На ковёр падаю с головы на спину,
На коленях ссадины аж до крови.
Над собой вижу руки в мольбе сложенные,
Они, вроде бы, на твои похожи.
Они меня вверх тянут, как положено.
Чтоб не сгинул тут, снизойдя до дрожи.
А мне тоже, может быть, кто-то дорог.
Меня тоже, быть может, кто-то любит.
Кто моих наслушавшись скороговорок,
Пожурит, да похвалит, да приголубит.
Головой не хочу уповать на господа,
Сердце просит хоть чем-то быть обманутым.
Если б мог, я б бескрайность целого космоса
Обменял на Морфея цветок маковый.
На стихах вскормленный щенок фобий
Обратится цербером с гривой львиной -
В ней и скрою разум, а среди рёбер
Построю темницу для Мнемосины.
Разобью костёр, дам костям согреться,
Разорву рубцы ран заживших криво.
Изойду на масло олив и смесь перцев.
Тушить до готовности, подавать красиво...
Serotonin, taken back once more.
Reuptake—turned inside around.
I fall headfirst, then flat upon the floor,
My knees are scraped until they bleed the ground.
Above myself I see two hands in prayer;
They almost look as though they could be yours.
They pull me upward, gently, through despair,
Lest trembling be the last thing I endure.
Perhaps there's someone precious to me too.
Perhaps there's someone out there loving me.
Who, hearing all my tongue-tied torrents through,
Would chide, then praise, then hold me tenderly.
My mind refuses hope in God above;
My heart still begs for some consoling lie.
If I could choose, I'd trade the stars I love—
The boundless cosmos—for Morpheus' poppy flower.
The puppy of my fears, on verses fed,
Will grow into a lion-maned Cerberus.
Within that mane I'll hide my reasoning head;
Between my ribs build Mnemosyne a prison.
I'll raise a fire and warm my weary bones,
Rip open scars that never healed quite straight.
I'll melt to olive oil and crushed peppercorns—
Simmer till done, then serve upon a plate.
Omgomgomg that's one of the good ones. I love it so much, it's my dearest child. Hope you like it too.
03.11.2022
Дождик капает по лужам,
А я никому не нужен,
Как всегда слегка простужен,
Полусонный и в бреду.
Я не выхожу наружу,
Чем сильней свою жизнь рушу,
Как всегда, спасаю душу.
Я опять к вам не приду
Raindrops ripple through the puddles,
No one needs me anyway.
Slightly fevered, as I'm always,
Half in dreams I've lost my way.
I won't dare to cross the doorway,
Though it tears my life apart.
As I always do, I'm saving
What's still left inside my heart.
No—I won't be there today.
That's the second version of a translation. In case if it's not showing the real meaning, I'm gonna explain it here. I had a company or some sort of it. There was a nice group of trans*people in the city, and some of them were living right near my dorm. But it's my third year at university. My closest friends, who kept me company in my depression got better. They stopped failing exams and I was jealous and angry, 'cause I was struggling even more. And those new friends made life worth living again. The problem was –– I got used to sabotaging myself. I really wanted to come, but most of the time I was too depressed, or I was feeling unwell, or there was a bad weather. So, first I got isolated forcefully, and I got too used to this isolation and loneliness. I started self-isolating. And this is an image of that process.
29.09.2022
Сколько не старайся, момент лучше не настанет,
Тебе врали все планеты, и монетками в фонтане
Не заставишь ты судьбу стать хоть немного подобрее.
No matter how you try — the right moment won't come.
They all lied to you — the planets, and the coins in the fountain.
You can't make fate turn even a little kinder.
Do I even need to explain it?
21.09.2022
Я проебал своё детсво,
Режим украл мою юность.
Жизнь проносится мимо
От истока до устья.
Если всё будет так же,
Скоро ведь заебусь я.
Да уже заебался,
В списке целей так пусто.
Смысла нет в достижениях,
Он остался в любви лишь.
Время стало обманкой,
Каждый старт сразу финиш.
Мне не страшно,
Страх остался во фразе:
"ты меня не покинешь?"
I fucking wasted my childhood,
The Regime stole my youth.
Life rushes right past me ––
From the source to the mouth.
If it keeps going this way,
Soon I'll be fucking done.
Yeah, I'm already done.
My list of goals? There's none.
There's no point in achievements ––
Only love held the meaning.
Time's become a deceiver:
Every start –– straight to the finish.
I'm not scared ––
The fear stayed in one sentence:
"Promise me you won't vanish."
I'm not quite sure what I meant. It's 2022, so we skipped a couple of poems about war and etc, and here I'm probably still shocked. I remember this feeling, when the whole world is falling apart. I was raised to live on a different planet, you know. Without borders, with diplomacy and democracy. And in one moment it all just disapeared. That's probably it.
25.04.2022
Под старой лампадой
Желтеют страницы,
И каменный рыцарь
Ослабил поводья
И ищет местечко
Чтобы спуститься,
Ступить на траву,
И её, приминая,
Устлать вереницей
Следов от босых
И измученных стоп,
В рассвет удалиться.
Забыть свои корни, забыть всё, что должен,
Забыть о драконах и замках.
Хотел быть героем, стал слишком серьёзен,
А тут оно –– вон как...
Beneath the old icon lamp
The pages are yellowing.
The knight carved in stone
Slackens the bridle,
Looks for a small spot
To climb down alone.
To step on the grass,
Bend it under his weight,
Lay out in a line
The marks of his bare,
Weary soles,
And vanish at sunrise time.
To forget his roots, forget every debt,
Forget the dragons, the castle, the throne.
He dreamed to be a hero — became too serious.
But here it is –– look how it's grown.
I wanted to experiment on shape and form, and I think it came out pretty well. This is a period where I, as an author, suffer a lot. For multiple reasons, but mostly because I feel invisible and hopeless. I had wrote about 20 songs and not a single time I had a chance to perform even one. I hate myself and my art, I know it's the best I can do, it's better than some songs i've heard that actually have an audience, every new song is better than the other... and somehow it's still not good enough. So up from here, in later poems, you can clearly see this leimotif, where I'm endlessly unsatisfied with everithing I've wrote but at the same time I can't stop writing. I don't relate to this anymore btw.
21.09.2021
You've said so many times
That I'm the best you've ever met ––
It made me think I'm special.
You've said so many times
That you love me. just set me free,
'Cause not to mention ––
The fact: whenever i wake up,
I'm all by myself.
I'm always wrong, I'm always weird,
So i won't cry for help.
No matter how ––
How hard i try ––
You are two stairs above.
So
I wish i never fell in love
Ugh, where do I start. I've met my partner in 2020, when we were both in school. And since that moment we became inseperable. It's not a story about abuse and codependence, no. We both were so miserable and for the first time in our lifes we stumbled upon someone kind and caring. But for three years we were separated by about 1000 km, only seeing each other during holydays and on discord calls. Since I was mostly writing songs this has a nice melody in my head, and I still remember it perfectly.
14.04.2021
В белом отблеске луны
Встретил лужу из воды.
Оказалось, он не лужа.
Просто
Никому
Не нужен.
In the white reflection of the moon
I came across a puddle. But soon
I realized — it's no puddle.
Simply
Needed
By no one.
This poem goes right after the clearly political one. And this one is quite silly, not much to say.
20.10.2020
Помогите.
В моих лёгких мало места,
И я съел что-то не то.
Но что конкретно — неизвестно.
Еда, к которой я привык,
Куда-то разом вся исчезла.
Я вскоре сам за ней последую,
Похоже, если честно.
Сородичи мои всегда больны,
И это страшно.
Вдруг я тоже ослабею —
Не могу представить даже.
Что я буду делать?
Ведь не так уж это важно.
Максимум упомянут
В каком-то местном репортаже.
Help.
There's little space inside my chest,
And I ate something wrong, that's clear.
But what exactly — I can't guess.
The food that I've used to eat
Has vanished all at once — oh dear.
Soon I will follow it, complete —
That's honest, if I'm being sincere.
My kin are always sick and weak,
And that's a frightful thing to see.
What if I, too, become bleak?
I can't even imagine it.
What will I do then, anyway?
It doesn't really matter, friend.
At best, I'll be mentioned in a stray
Local news report — the end.
I don't remember what exactly inspired me on this. But I know that when I've found it recently on my phone there was a huge ecological disaster on the shores of the Black sea (and it's still there! And government is covering it with fake reports while police threatens every person who will post a video or a photo about it on social media.) It's wild how I wrote it long before the war and before it got this bad. Almost like if I felt something... Also, considering four chords written in the same note it was supposed to be a song.
02.04.2020
А Жаба жопу продавал,
Искал он день и ночь
Кому б толкнуть,
Куда вложить
И как всё это смочь.
А Жаба жопу продавал.
Зачем? Искал покой:
Раз жопы нет ––
Проблемы нет,
Тревоги все долой.
А Жаба жопу продавал,
Чтобы пожить чуть-чуть.
И тьму и свет
Он исходил,
Устал, что просто жуть!
А Жаба жопу продавал,
Без дядь и пап и мам,
Без смс,
И ндс
"Возьмите butt, мадам!"
А Жаба жопу продавал.
Всего за полцены!
В придачу пончо,
И торшер,
И ухо сатаны
А Жаба жопу продавал,
Но силы все в трубу.
Он в объявлении
Написал,
Что продавец в гробу.
A Toad was selling his own ass,
He searched by day and night:
"To whom could I push it,,
Where to invest it,
And how to pull it off alright."
A Toad was selling his own ass.
Why? He searched for peace of mind:
"No ass – no problem,
No trouble at all –
All worries left behind!"
A Toad was selling his own ass
To get a little life to live.
Through darkness and through light
He wandered till
He got dead tired – no lie!
A Toad was selling his own ass,
With no uncles, dads or moms,
No SMS,
No VAT ––
"Please take this butt, madame!"
A Toad was selling his own ass.
For just a half the price!
A poncho thrown in,
A floor lamp too,
And the ear of Satan.
A Toad was selling his own ass,
But all his strength went down the drain.
He wrote in the ad ––
"I'm out of gas,
The seller's lying in a coffin plain."
That's a silly poem I wrote about my bud named Toad. He was stressed out because of college exams. He wrote once: "I will sell my own ass for a diploma", and that amused me so much I came up with this. It's sad that we've lost touch with years. It's very not sad that I still have this poem with me.