Poetry
Burn me, the Sunshine
How beautiful the language is, yet the stench seeps through the lines, which are smoothly carved on words to make their shells so fine. The lovelier the house, the harder it is for me to get there without sprinkling gastric juice over the dwelling’s fence. The rotten corns swarm the brimming barns. The insects breed and eat; I have compassion for them indeed. Craven jellylike warms their slippy bodies before the fireplace of rotten flesh, so I raise my head and wonder if I join them. Should I crawl into the warm and curly pubes? Ah, if only I were small enough for the sweet life in this colored hair.
No, I am big and porridge-fed hence i am fond of shaved bodies and feminine transparent vellus fluff. I like to roast myself in the sun, knowing that it is exactly me and nothing else but me who will die of skin cancer. I love my humble scent, and I love it more than a wonderful stink of fragrance lines for retail stores. And I love to be a crumb at the corner of the mouth, yet I am passionately frightened of falling into your musty cavity.
Wretched cockroaches in dark corners, I want to pet you. You are not the things you try to pass your pathetic little bodies off. I will scrape the things you are proud of just to come across chitin under the nail. I will press on the most beloved and hear the most delightful crack. Salt packet, is that is how I should address you? The rays of the sun will not caress you, as you are self-loathed and keep concealing the simplest of desires from each other. You, mad squatters, are ready to inhabit any word which turns out to be without a mirror to remind you of your feeble features. I think I have seen her; she is cute, though she is pathetic.
Swarm, brothers and sisters, until the salt packet crushes you and your family. And I will try to die from sweet radiation before your antennae reach my neck.
I am the homeless nakedness; burn me, the Sunshine!
Translated from ukrainian by Timur Leschenko.
Poetry is an inconstant field of creativity, in which, nevertheless, I am interested in writing poems that are sharp, experimental, figurative and full of allegory. My poetry may seem rough and offensive—perhaps it actually is—but I wouldn’t want it to be perceived as an ideological gesture. Rather, it is a reaction to the suffocating boredom of mainstream poetry, which, in my opinion, has become an ineffective element of political struggle. I enjoy playing with language, so I strive to develop poetry as an art form rather than a space for slogans. Poetry should be double-edged for all the polarities that have become so popular to construct at every turn. It should cut everyone, not the convenient image of the "enemy". It shouldn't once again affirm the already accepted and comfortable theses and opinions within certain circles. At the very least, I create the kind of poetry I would want to find and read myself if no one else is capable of providing it.
Only a small portion of my poetry has been translated from Ukrainian and Russian into English.