Poetry
The Visage
In the languor of motionless days
I dress myself in dried ant flowers
To feel the cones of thorns in the back so close,
To make the heart pump sour retribution through colossus’s legs blood vessels
Heated over the flame of the desire to squish the fleas.
The impaler-flower,
Listen to the whisper of the thirst in mindless eyes.
Land yourself in talentless ashes
Unable to torment the innocents with words,
Bloom intensely in my craters like a pear of anguish,
An offended animal that wants to shed the pain,
A spider venom that dissolves the mice’s entrails.
I tear transparency to cuts like in a dream,
Densely dig the beds, then glassy sow the frailty.
I make the blood and mucus ooze down over the rim of the pit
To rise up from the heady precipice right on solid ground
Under the necks of the neglected.
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.