If You Know Her

If you know her — and I’m sure you do —
then you probably know a thing or two:
how an eagle can kill a goat,
how to fight a swan and keep afloat,
how to take the red coat from the wardrobe’s war —
she tells me the same each time, once more.

If you know him — and I’m sure you do —
he fought malaria, cancer too,
survived two crashes, bones and skin,
but couldn’t quite survive within.
He took his gun and said, “Well, son,
that’s interesting — how it works?” And he’s gone.

For her, a man’s a Kinder Surprise:
first, the thrill — then rolling eyes.
“Oh, that one? I’ve had before.”
And she swaps him for one more.

If you know her — and I’m sure you do —
then you probably see it all too.

(And if not — just wait, you’ll get the clue.)

08.11.2025

Monster heart

I thought she liked him,
but it was the other way round.
He changed — or was changed —
into something never found.

No one really knows that song,
the thrum beneath the dark —
but once you’ve heard it,
you’ll know the mark.

Some say he’s gone,
some say he runs,
chasing dawn
through dying suns.

But if you drive too far, too late,
and feel the engine start —
don’t fear the road,
it’s just his spark.

Monster heart,
rolling loud,
Burning fast,
lost in the crowd.

Iron dreams,
gasoline skies,
Freedom screams
through broken ties.

Neon ghosts
in rearview glass —
every road
eats what he was.

Monster heart,
doesn’t fall apart —
fire was always
his truest art.

Ashes fall,
midnight rain,
every scar
still knows his name.

Chrome and bone,
engine cry,
he was born
built to die.

Through the smoke,
the mirror stares —
It’s him again,
but no one cares.

Monster heart,
beat and burn,
Every end
waits his return.

02.11.2025

Серое присутствие

Комната. Стены. Лампа. Потолок.
Бессмысленный и тусклый свет
В углу дрожит, словно прилёг.
И скрип холодного окна 

Идёт ко мне. Я у стекла. 

Стою. Сжимаю кулаки.
Под серым свитером видны
Лишь рукава рубашки в клетку.
И занавески в сетку
ШевЕлятся в потоках редких.

Морозное, тяжёлое присутствие
КостянОй, неразжимаемой рукой
Касается… Паническое отсутствие.
Оцепенение. И дальше ни ногой.

Огромная, растущая по стенам
Тень… возвышается и упирается
В потолок навесной и белоснежно-белый.
Дыхание сбивается. 

                      Оцепенение ускоряется.

Кто ты? Что ты?
Связь крепнет… Потолок срывается.
Серое 

         молчаливое 

                   присутствие
Тяжеловесно. 

                Беззвучно. 

                            Опускается.

Мы на равных… Он знает:
Кто я. Кто он. Смотрит и оживляет
Воспоминания места, времени.
Мы в едином бремени.

Прощаемся, как старые друзья,
И от разлуки — бесконечная тоска.

Комната. Стены. Лампа. Потолок.
Бессмысленный и тусклый свет сжался в клубок.
И хрип холодного окна…
Нет никого. 

            Я здесь одна.

01.11.2025

Nameless essence

A room. A ceiling. Walls. A lamp.
A meaningless, dim light — so damp —
shudders softly in the corner,
as if it lay there, growing colder.

Beneath the gray old sweater’s fold
the shirt’s pale ghost lies, faint and cold.
The mesh curtains tremble, sway,
in drifting air — then fade away.

A frosty, heavy, nameless presence
touches — cold, with bone-like essence.
Fear and panic — raw and bare.
Paralysis. I’m bound by air.

A vast shadow, crawling, grows,
along the wall — and upward flows.
It rises, presses, nears the ceiling —
Breath falters. Numbness keeps on stealing.

Who are you? What are you, still?
The pull grows stronger — bends my will.
The ceiling shatters, cracks apart —
a gray, mute presence floods my heart.

We are equals. He knows me well.
Who I am. Who he is — no need to tell.
He looks, and memories arise —
of time and place — of long goodbyes.

We part like friends who’ve met before.
And longing fills me, to the core —
like summer dusk in northern air,
in Petersburg, when light hangs there.

The room. The lamp. The walls. The ceiling.
The dim light curls — its glow retreating.
The window creaks. The sound is gone.
No one is here. I stand — alone.

01.11.2025