"Verslibrian" (2024)

Echoes of desolation

In the twilight where the abscence screams,
Whispers of despair, haunting dreams.
Cacophony of echoes, soliloquy of pain,
The chambers of abyss, where shadows reign.

Bleeding skies, a canvas of decay,
As the reaper's scythe paints the night astray.
Echoes of desolation, a hymn for the cursed,
In the graveyard of existence, the void immersed.
Crimson rivers flowing in my veins,
A symphony of anguish, perpetual chains.
As the moon weeps, casting funeral light,
In the junkyard of hope, where demons alight.

Bleeding skies, a canvas of decay,
As the reaper's scythe paints the night astray.
Echoes of desolation, a hymn for the cursed,
In the graveyard of existence, the void immersed.

Waltz of the malice, serenading doom,
In the garden of despair with roses entombed.
The serpent's tongue whispers the ancient lies,
As the ravens feast upon the delirious skies.

A crescendo of sorrow, a funeral pyre,
As the mournful winds play on the lyre.
In the cryptic embrace of the nocturnal mist,
Eternal night, where our sorrows persist.

Bleeding skies, a canvas of decay,
As the reaper's scythe paints the night astray.
Echoes of desolation, a hymn for the cursed,
In the graveyard of existence, the void immersed.

As the echoes fade into the abyss,
A requiem for the lost, sealed with a kiss.
In the twisted symphony of doom,
We find solace in our eternal gloom.

Quand tu pars avec quelqu un d autre

Quand tu pars avec quelqu'un d'autre
Je fais semblant d'être une pierre
Et des chansons désespérées naissent dans ma tête.
Je me souviendrai de ces chansons pour le reste de ma vie,
Ce qui va se passer dans le vide et l'amertume des souvenirs.
Un enfant abandonné regardera à travers mes vieux yeux fanés

Sur les murs vides, au fond des pièces vides,
Dans l'obscurité d'une demeure inhabitée.
J'apprendrai à lire les pensées des autres,
Pré-tuer à la volée les oiseaux de mensonge essayant de faire des nids
dans mes cheveux gris.
Je ne pourrai aimer personne parce qu’on ne m’a pas appris à aimer qui que ce soit.
J'apprends à être mort.

Quand tu pars avec quelqu'un d'autre
Je comprends que j'étais au courant de cela à l'avance.
Et je ne m’attendais à rien d’autre.
Tout le temps auparavant, j'attendais le couteau caché derrière ton dos.
Tous les mots d'amour sont des mensonges,
Regarder à travers les yeux des oiseaux que j'ai tués.

Quand tu pars avec quelqu'un d'autre
Je deviens très jeune et le temps cesse de me dominer.
Je redeviens vivant, vulnérable, stupide et éternel.
Il me semblait que j'avais appris depuis longtemps à emprunter un chemin différent,
Mais une fois de plus, je reviens aux vieux sentiers battus de la défaite.

Des chansons anciennes et immuables résonnent dans ma tête.
Un enfant abandonné me regarde avec de vieux yeux fanés.
Murs vides, obscurité des pièces vides d’un immeuble inhabité.
Fatigué de la luxure, du dégoût de mon corps,
Calme et non-vie.
Tout ça parce que tu ne vas nulle part ailleurs.
Parce que tu n'as jamais existé.

High life

I used to lead even if play is dead
I used to hold people in my head
Like perfume in the sweaty summer day
Like alcohol on the forgotten bay

My high fidelity life
High-quality everything
Wherever my thoughts rive
Offer without demand

Responses without a call
Untime and irrelevant
The fancy of goal
Illusory everything

Keeping that good face for a bad-bad game
Rewrite the plot and screw it up again
I need to turn onto the one right line
Piss on the red lights if I knew it was mine

It's so reviving laying down on the floor
It's so relieving cold we're riding the storm

Millenial Gray

The pushed and pulled me into the pool
To make me learn to swim
They tramped me down in the darkness
So I used to walk on blind
Even in daylight
Even in daylight

I'm not a friend to love
I'm not the enemy,
Just a fetus of stone unborn
Personal end of me

I love the faded colors
Dark world painted with gray
My open blinds and a doorway
Are opened to nowhere...

Only you

You have you, only you, you and only, who is like a dusty sarcophagus protects the corpse
of old music from time, no one has needed for a long time;
who is talking on the ocean shore with phantoms of angels, decayed long ago;
with wordless strokes of shadows on a deserted road - their messages are not heard by anyone;
only you, whose boyish profile is covered the long-coarsened skin of a man,
to whom time reveals someone completely unfamiliar in the reflections of mirrors.

You're lying in a hospital bed, cold and white like a herring fish and
your family doctor with an old pince-nez on his nose slowly cuts off piece by piece,
repeating significantly: "Therapia est in herbs, verbis et lapidibus."*
He once, in better times was rich and successful and saved children from plague and measles.
Nowadays he sells pacifiers in beautiful bottles and talks beautifully cutting off
piece by piece the cucumbers of your feet, sucking the olives of your pupils,
pressing gently with a knife on the blue throat.

The day after tomorrow there will be a global consultation for incurable diseases;
the pandemic plan will be approved by the authorities;
maestro from a prosperous country will play the violin to beaten half to death milkmaid,
Mozart and Albinoni in the stable;
Instead of sweets and padded jackets will give fairy tales to orphans hierophants,
looking at thin frost-covered fingers, on the window bars of the shelter.
Everything will be as before: routine evil, the banality of unbearable crosses,
slaughterhouses and knackers, heartless children, stupid and angry old people.
ATM people, indifference, lust and intoxication.
And the once inspiring sound of iron wheels and the whistle of the locomotive
only one thing is repeated now: It will never be fine.
It will never be fine.

Gathering the bones in an armful, I get up in the evening and go out onto the roof
of the high-rise building, and stay there for hours.
And no one will come, won't be with you neither devil nor angel - only you, you and only,
powerless before the bonds of fear, omnipotent god unto himself for lack of anything else.
You have you only you, you and only and the cloudy sun and the cold wind, and loneliness.
In herbis, verbis et lapidibus.

On the other side of us

I'm walking on the burnt ground in neurolepsy of smoke and coma, of long stagnant moans.
Protein Crescent hung like a frozen yolk over the fireplace, charred branches of broken destinies.
Above me comet water striders draw formulas and equations of the ideal destiny.
I'm walking on the burnt ground.

An old paramedic stands at the window, lighting a candle, and brings his palms to the decayed icon
in the bright room, where they sing day and night their dreams, prayers, singing plumbing and electrical wiring.
And the candle smokes so much, deceiving him with the smell of childhood -
that's what the cookies smelled like, oatmeal, mom's cookies.
Whispers, either human or drops of water...
A lament, either human, or hundreds of candles...
A line of ghosts waiting for eternity for a gray ticket,
"Witness my death."
An old paramedic stands at the window, blowing out a candle.

Do you hear the voice of the earth and me in the spring chorus,
in the cemetery hubbub of birds, in the black funeral feasts that have sounded for a long time, the choked bells?
Like the shadow of furious dreams I slide over the gravestone portraits,
by the wind, drunk, fallen in the weeds, whistling brushwood from the road.
Every night I see my father in my dreams - he is more alive than the living, and I am deader than in life.
This time before dawn we looked in vain for a tavern.
Walked silently...
walked silently...
I would like to drink, but there is nothing, nothing to drink with - do you hear the voice of the earth?

I merge with my deity with a quiet background of sick interlinear lines.
My deity is in the pale sun of dawn, spilled on dirty window glass, in warm drops of rain
The muddy cup of my joys, which has known so many treacherous lips, filled with the evil
of the Lord who is not mine - I am saved by my deity.

New slide in diascope.
The brushwood of broken destinies on the burnt land suddenly changes to the city of the future
invented by a neural network, city I look at from the balcony of a new apartment with retro-style objects.
On the convex lens of a matte CRT, green codes decipher another universe, signals caught
by wild grape stems, a Martian radio rattling in the mouth, under the sink, a tape recorder in the attic,
loudspeakers under water, that foggy, orange light outside the window and that feeling when life was ahead,
and my obviously best version, smiling at the window display mirrors,
goes shopping eau de toilette from Givenchy on Lenin Street.
On the other side of us...
I squeeze with a tired, trembling hand, preparing to insert, new slide in diascope.

Misfortune

Someday you will realize the greatest misfortune – the loss of yourself. For a long time your attention will be distracted by endless celebrations, endless guests, food, unhealthy laughter and the seeming ease of conversations, inspired by alcohol and vanity. But one day you will see clearly and discover how quickly and prematurely your chosen one has aged, how his speech has become impoverished, and his feelings have become impoverished. You will be terrified by the thought that you have long since become accustomed to this, as well as to all the strangers filling the empty cell of the apartment. Outside the windows there is an eternal sunset, which you see even during the day, like an obsessive, soul-tormenting reminder of what did not come true…

An unfulfilled life... I see it everywhere. Every household item, every building has acquired a new, inexpressible and attractive meaning for me. And the more antiquity and desolation in them, the brighter and more expressive the stories of my unlived lives. The glamorous capital hides under neon glitter and decorative wall coverings the peeling paint of a past era and the compressed dust of disappeared counters. I no longer notice the absurdity of flashy advertising billboards, haphazardly placed on the reinforced concrete milestones of grocery stores, and the garish idleness of roofs painted with inappropriate ornaments, placed instead of the sky on the shoulders of architectural anachronistic Atlanteans. I have the same dream where I wander aimlessly through the old city, get lost in the alleys and giant halls of non-existent libraries, realizing that it is not time that is slipping away from me, but that I am moving further and further away from the world that always exists here and now. Buses unexpectedly change routes and take me to the end of the city or to other cities; a subway tunnel suddenly turns into an unfinished high cage made of wooden rods, and the driver announces a stop, asking passengers to leave the train. Again and again in oppressive and restless dreams I find myself on a road familiar from childhood. It leads to the houses of my old friends who have remained in the past. And I walk for a long time, tired and broken, go to my friends, but they hardly recognize me. And even when we all sit down together at a table replete with food and drink, I feel that every next minute of the meal separates me further and further from this unusual company. Inventing various reasons, I leave, continue walking somewhere, meet random people, just as drunk as me, continue drinking or quarrel with them, but in the end I again find myself on a wide and endless road from nowhere to nowhere. And in the morning, breaking out of the vicious circle of meaningless events, opening my crazy eyes and slowly returning to the real world, I initially feel saved. No matter what happens in a dream, reality always turns out to be better and more comfortable, there is always more freedom in it and an inexplicable sense of selfhood is more vividly manifested, which is completely lost in the absurdity of roles imposed by sleep, decorations and plots that cannot be abandoned. And only by midday, when the sun's rays fall on the windowsill and the dusty jar with dried violets standing on it, I feel a slight numbness and understand that reality can be very similar to a dream.

Stanzas of Diaphonolus Blepomonomaurus

And mercy triumphs over judgment...


- Can the Almighty create a stone, who can't lift? -
I asked, and the world rolled its eyes to the sky, imagining a block,
which is harder than diamond and larger than the sun.
The eyes of the world came full circle and settled on me, meeting my bitter smile with bewilderment.
“This stone,” - I continued, - “has already been created a long time ago
and it is no more than a hand clenched into a fist. This stone is my heart.
Look around you - from creation we stand, nameless, in the rock garden."

Just as a star attracts other celestial bodies, taking away their body and space.
This is how a predator devours its prey.
And the long grueling balance of the celestial bodies - only their invisible fall.
The old lion, expelled from the pride, will fall to the ground without strength, and the stars,
having exhausted all their hopes, will fall one day onto a sandy shroud.
A fallen star is no longer a star but just a stone.

Every word I say is a judgment.
Every breath I take is a wheeze of rage.
Every thought is poison
As soon as I gain strength, I am drawn to destruction.
Whenever I lose strength and get sick, crying for the Garden of Eden pours out of my eyes like a shower.
And just between this and that...
Between failure and defeat in a short moment of calm bordering on indifference,
when the executioner is already sleeping inside me, and the trembling creature
has not yet woken up, I understand that no one is guilty,
that everyone deserves forgiveness, salvation, transformation.
Because we will all die and none of us will change.
And the law of the spirit is inseparable from the law of the flesh.
And freedom of will and choice is the most vile lie.
And then I whisper: Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.
And the cloudy moon hides its face in embarrassment behind the veil of night clouds.

I don't exist, because if I existed, then he would know joy and equally know grief.
But I didn’t know either one or the other completely.
My hands are a sieve with holes in which I cannot carry the wine of the bitter memory of you.
I forget myself in a dream, I forget myself in reality.
My body is a phantom because it doesn't burn to the ground, does not fall into the underworld, when I think of you.
My heart is a traitor because cannot mourn you endlessly, betrays you, consigns you to oblivion and weakens over time.
My non-existence is absurd and inappropriate like laughter at a funeral service, as the impossibility of retribution.
I don't exist, because if I existed, I wouldn’t have been able to live since you were gone; I would curse the day I was born.
And I'm silent...

Atemporalita

Rails-rails, sleepers-sleepers,
The train was late...


Half-eaten bills peek out
from the thin-lipped, twisted mouth of a wallet.
Treat, madam, treat
my astral body, my field of stagnation.
Write occult signs and secret symbols
in the air with your fingers,
walk around me with a measuring tape,
measure me -
I love being measured
like in childhood when
every second woman was a witch,
and secrets were hidden in barns and wardrobes.
And invisible rails were laid along the corridor
in my apartment,
crossroads and passes lurked in the twilight.
Rustle your colored feathers above me,
give me back the miracle of the moment
with clepsydra droppers,
measured knock of a quartz lamp:
"tyatk-tyatk..."
It's sweet for me to pretend to be a wounded soldier,
feeling imaginary needles and catgut
at the touch of your fingers.
The wax melts and crackles, and the water boils.
There is a subtle smell of coffee
and the whisper of metaphorical cards.
Quiet room in timelessness -
Oh, how I miss it!

Just sadness

Orange moon against a purple sky,
sunset of a hot day, falling in dirty, powerless tones
from trees, flowing down the walls, becoming the road dust;
the inscription on the visor of the bistro
"soon it will be delicious"
which I read every time I drive past,
obsessively wanting it to become a prophecy;
a lonely figure at an empty bus stop, your beautiful lost look,
flashed behind the dim glass - it's just sadness.

The road never ends, Groundhog Day repeats itself
decades;
people change,
and only their roles remain unchanged, insoluble.
Here, a random landscape, suddenly reminded me of my childhood,
and for a moment you got lost on the bookshelf,
between the Bradbury volumes, diving into the rustle of the pages;
I found myself at my school desk again,
dreaming about a bright path to the future,
about a time when everything would be fine
in a clean office in a good position,
when the days, like foreign cartoons,
seemed so sweetly and painfully long,
like the universes of good books where we went on binges;
evil and grief have not yet found their names -
it's just sadness.

Just sadness that I have to always come back
into the world of faded shadows,
enslaved and devastated holders of passports and professions;
into a world of desecrated childhood, ruined youth, insulting old age -
a world where pigeons peck out each other's eyes
for every crumb of earthly grace;
where everything rests only on a vulgar stable disequilibrium.
Just sadness that there is so little true happiness in life.

Ephebophilia

I'm obsessed with your smooth young skin,
tender baby lips and light puberty fluff above them.
I want to swallow the slenderness of your body,
thin and tender, fragile and hot, like fresh milk.
I want to taste the bloody passion in your breath
when you bite my lips in a frenzied kiss.
I want to lick the tears of your grief
when, seized by lust, you completely trust me.
I want to breathe your health and beauty,
forgetting my years, my ugliness,
my melancholy and anger.
I want you to worship my experience.
As much as I worship your purity.
I want your liquids to become my liquids.
I want your hot mouth to suck me dry.
I want to see your feverish bliss from my penetration.
Until we come...
And I want the hours of silence,
when you lay exhausted on my chest.
The silent night of secutity,
the silent night of serenity.
Not knowing each other's names,
not knowing each other's stories
but the pain of thousand years
with no tomorrow
released in our unity.

And You Dream

And you dream. You dream of a northern night and white dogs, of someone close to you, who sits next to you,
not letting go of your hand. The crew rushes through a snowstorm to the yurt of an old shaman,
who will undertake to treat you long and meticulously. You can already hear the moans of her shamanism,
the smell of a fire and healing potions, you can already feel the sweet-bitter taste of witchcraft herbs on your lips.
In these dreams, the future and the unfulfilled merged together, taking new, but at the same time familiar forms.
Cozy memories, in which the old city, a cafe where the closest friends gathered. Tarot and Lenormand fortune-telling cards,
the rustle of a shuffled deck, the bluish smoke of lavender incense and Palo Santo sticks,
the bittersweet African coffee hiding secrets in its magical thicket, the flickering flames of candles and a selenite wand
in the thin fingers of a gentle hand performing an aerial Reiki dance.
What was that woman thinking about who was telling our fortunes in the cafe, escaping from her pain in fortune-telling,
looking at the others, young and in love, thirsting to know their fate? I didn’t want to think about it.
And that’s why the shaman, to whom I am heading now, has a northern face, expressing nothing but detachment,
as if hiding from a curious look under a thick network of wrinkles on her dark skin, melting in the smoke of the fire.

It seems that all this is already happening to me in reality. You are nearby, and we are together in the distant northern desert.
During the day the shaman heals me with cold and spells, and at night, flapping her arms like a huge owl with its shaggy wings,
she soars up under the fabric dome of a spacious yurt and hides like a dryad in its folds, leaving us alone. It is unknown
whether she is watching us or falling into a deep sleep. We, lying on warm and prickly animal skins, indulge in caresses.
3You become a bird, your body rises above mine and descends with a booming exhalation, like an angel, now rising above
the milky thicket of clouds, now diving into their depths. You heal me with your body, and the entire universe floats past us,
seething and restless, accompanied by the distant whistles of a night train, the languid singing of its steam Calliope.
Then we fall asleep together and see the same dream: a lonely island in the ocean, a deserted rocky shore of the island,
two bodies intertwined in the water - everything around is deserted and lonely. Only we are not alone, looking at each other,
looking at ourselves as if from the outside and unable to believe that all this is real.
The sea, like a film projector, throws waves of memories onto the relief screen of the cliff with colored shadows.
How much fatigue is in these waves, how much wisdom is in the eyes of the actors playing in this silent film.
How much youth is in their touches of old stones.

- Do you hear, the train is arriving, - you whisper in a half-sleep, hugging me tighter.
I wake up and see our room outside of time.
The fogged glass of the uncurtained window responds with a slight tremor from a train passing nearby.

Dexamethasone

Tear out the invisible atom of truth from the flow of knowledge.
You risk making things worse for yourself, but make up your mind and inject Dexamethasone.
Don't be afraid, hormone is just a beautiful word, shrouded in myths and fears.
Don't be afraid of anything because no one in the world needs you.

Forget your dysmorphophobia and vomitophobia, throw up what was shoved into you,
what has been ripening in you for years like a tumor: good cartoons and fairy tales
for the mentally retarded, your unfortunate teachers.
The randomness and meaninglessness of your pain is a sufficient reason to no longer be afraid of anything.
A random molecule, simple or complex, will save or kill you, interrupting a series of meaningless pain.

And they will pray to their gods, wave their hands - they will not be taught anything by the fact that their gods and Reiki dances never save anyone...
Perhaps you will find your master Castaneda, your invisible atom.
And it will be real magic, based on simple laws of physics and chemistry.
My former gods were called Dexamethasone and Polyoxidonium.
Now no god can save me.

Don't regret your lost dreams, their intoxicating narcotic lies.
Courageously come to terms with the fact that your life will become irreversibly gray and disgusting, with the fact that you - a butterfly with torn off wings - will have to live out your life in an entomologist's matchbox,
where the day lasts longer than a century, and the pin that pressed you to the bottom of the box barely will allow you to breathe.

I know too much. I know everything!
I know that's what they say when they're going mad.
I can't write poetry anymore.
I don't want to share anything with anyone.
And fortunately, I have nothing to share...

My poor texts lose to random neural network delusional generators,
Nvidia video cards write music better than my favorites from youth.
I hated my poetry and music.
I won't write them anymore.

I reach for an empty syringe, swallow soda - there is almost nothing left of their hypnosis...

The winter

The winter cold of oblivion, the chill of inevitable rebirth, calming the fever of everyday drudgery.
Winter sleep, full of cherry blossom petals scattered along the road and floating on the surface of the river.
A landscape full of dragonflies, hovering on pink wings above the road and the river, above us, walking hand in hand.
A dream where I am the master of dragonflies, rattling flocks of necklaces, encircling the low clouds,
remembering the Sumerian lament about the transience of life and the unattainability of immortality -
snake doctors weighing human souls and sifting them, like a sieve, over a mirror of pure water.
I conduct their restless flight. Snatching the notes of forgotten music from my hands, pinkish flocks
envelop us in harmony oozing from petal-wings. Lightness. There is no comparable lightness to walk,
holding hands, just walking, not remembering who we are and where we are from, not knowing what awaits us tomorrow.
The lightness of life without promises and expectations. We, already dead or not yet born, in a world that never was.
- The train is arriving, - your voice comes as if from another world, reminding me of that easy love
that was given to us at a high price in that parallel world of inescapable heaviness,
and from these words the present me becomes almost weightless.
Intoxication with peace is the sweetest haze.

We walk along the river bank, and cherry twilight gradually covers us. Fireflies,
lighting up in hundreds in the crowns of age-old trees, timidly flicker illuminate the way,
and the bank itself turns into an endless table, where everyone who came in the twilight is invited.
It seems that in the distance I see the silhouettes of people sitting at the table.
Among them is my father in the company of our long-gone ancestors.
In the distance, a violin can barely be heard. Now the cello is echoing it confidently and sternly.
Berries and bunches of grapes on the table shimmer with an unearthly light, stars fall into glasses of wine,
scattering golden sparks around them. The wind tears new petals from the branches and they fall on my eyelids.
I close my eyes, unable to resist the hypnosis of what is happening, and now, in barely distinguishable flashes,
the snowflakes of the northern country, the shining eyes of sled dogs, the selenite staff of a fortune teller,
dispersing the smoke of incense, yellowish lights rushing past in blurred spots outside the windows of a taxi
and raindrops running along them in slanting strokes.
Raindrops trembling on the window glass of a lonely cold room at the hour when a train arrives.

The age of waiting is over, and existence demands action. But my weak heart barely pumps blood.
Absolutely alone - alone in the entire universe, I slowly walk through the snow, breathing heavily,
looking at the scarlet gleams of dawn beyond the horizon. In a dream, I received a letter from you with
an address in an unknown country. And I am going to an unknown country. There, where the riverbank turns
into an endless table, abundant with delicacies; where at night the trains of those who have gone into the twilight arrive.
It seems to me that something is encrypted in all this - the key to a new, completely different life, which is about to begin.

The dazzling spring light, the melting snow under the still matte sun, stingy with warmth –
I know that sooner or later it will reach me. I close my eyes and lose track
of the days and kilometers.
And now it seems that the warmth, like a timid little
animal, slowly and carefully climbs into the cup of my palm.
It does not burn, but
slowly spreads through the veins, reaching the heart. Is it your hand in my hand?
Is it your hand, as promised? Whatever it is, I ask only one thing – don’t let go.
Don’t let go of my hand!

And continuation...

Your childish lips sucked me in hotly.
Only these fragile hands managed to embrace the abyss between two generations.
I am older than you, I'm like a father to you - but no!
You are wiser than me, a hundred times more sinless.
Even if with me in the morning you get bored sometimes - that’s really funny.
You don't judge or despise, how we did it...
And the more you learned a variety of people the more sacred is your free spirit.
If only we could be the harlots for each other, the moderate joy of meeting - how we
meet the sunrises, carefree goodbye - like a child's dreamy look following the sparks
of August starfall, which is always foreboding the new star behind horizon.
And continuation...




August 05, 2024
© Copyright: Ardallion, 2024