Nicholay Syrov, 7/11


Let me study your features and contours
As I want to become a proper place where
Your shadow will fall and rest.
The ignited fear trickles into my
Dwindling inside but I still comb through
The cookie-cutter buildings looking for you.
A deranged misfit, I delve in the arid air
Trying to find your fragrance. I constantly
Cry and put people off.

My eyes
Are veiled
With saturnine red
Vigilant sun
Noise of the
Sounds like
Rises his
Finger to the
Halved sky

His virtuous face is a face of a psychopomp.
I see something maternal in it. After all,
What is that fruit that I hanker

Petulant child

Mom asks me what it’s like and I tell her that

I hear stinging satire and those who’d mixed up
The end of the world with a punchline of soap-box orgy,
I see no-win attempts and heroes moving to
Salubrious climate, I see zoned out people,
Credulous fools, phony prophets, torpid puppets,
Virulent rabble-rousers tapering off antidepressants,
Conscientious objectors put on disposable leashes,
I see troughs full of saccharine dung and tinsel,
Filmmakers looking through the napkin-ring
At a grimy earth skewered by steel-rimmed sprigs,
I see drabness and dizzying pirouettes from
Exhortations to agreed obliquity,
I see chequered past being boiled down to
Inexorable course of history and distorted faces of
Those whose rare protests look like frenetic top-loftiness,
I see myself somewhere in the lost point of the
As-yet unnamed decade of shoddy laudation.
We do our chores knee-deep in blood. I see it now.
It has always been noted in well-groomed parentheses.

Mom cooks and dresses plates. She doesn’t listen.
I understand that I did not say a word.


The city in winter
Grudgingly takes on
The cassock,
Although it still has
Nothing to do with
Edifying infallibility
And keeps its profligate
And gauche breath
At long nights.

Bundled up people
Flail around as if
At rummage sale.
Old men share parochial
Views near the fires
And youth bears them
Out without giving
A thought to.

Legs are enticed into
At-oneness of footprints
And cannot escape.
Lavishly enrobed
Buildings look smaller
And waiters serve
With unsettling brevity.

I seem to elude myself.
The snow nestles on
My shoulders and
Haggard face without
I conjure up visions
Of the past.

Promote. Poetry.
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