MOUTH

A fat, overgrown man sits.
His body sinks,
slow,
into the chair.

The chair legs creak,
crack,
under his weight.

Silence slides in,
settles,
presses,
thick as his bulk.

The room is empty.
He fills it.

A heavy, motionless figure.
All weight.
All stillness.
No drift.

Not a man.
A state
is here.

Inertia.
Stuckness.
Build-up.

A butterfly circles his face.
Wide.
Bright.
Brown.
Green.
Blue.
Yellow.

Lightness.
Impulse.
Change.

So fragile.
Still alive.

He stiffens.
He swats at it.
Snaps,
“Get away, butterfly!”

It slips into his space.
Into his
swollen,
red,
soft,
fleshy,
sagging
mouth.

He starts to choke.
As if they are not
compatible.

The mouth is not a body.
It is an exit.

Speech.
Breath.
Expression.
Not destruction.

Disintegration.

From his mouth
gold, glowing petals tear out
torn butterfly wings,
lit from inside,
bursting out,
spilling out,
like fireworks,
out
of the mouth
of a big,
crooked,
puffy,
gaping,
greedy
thing.

I am afraid
he will swallow it
and the butterfly will die.

A living impulse
inside a heavy system
dissolved into the familiar.

He chokes on a cough.
It looks as if he will lose his breath.
His mouth twists,
stretching his face.

I am afraid
it will kill him.

The mirror flips.
The butterfly is no longer weak.
Now light is dangerous.
Golden petals keep
flying out from his
mouth.

I am not part of this.
I do not save the butterfly.
I do not save the man.

01.02.2026

A glass of water

An old-fashioned café, nothing new,
A corner table, curtains half-see-through.
You order coffee, dark and warm,
I take a glass of water, simple form.
A plain clear glass, no ice, no shine,
You talk. Your words dissolve in mine.
They hit the glass, sink, then sway,
Soft little ripples in what you say.
I dive into the glass with my eyes,
Follow the patterns as they rise.
Spinning, turning, losing track,
Like rivers that don’t look back.
How fast the time escapes our talk,
Dripping slowly down the wall.
Water fills me through and through,
You know, you could bathe in me too.
So I would touch you everywhere at once,
With every surface, every pulse,
Kiss you with lips still wet with rain,
Hold you in drops I can’t contain.

Enfold your breath, don’t let it go,
Dive into me, dive in slow.
Hold your breath, stay right here,
Dive into me, don’t fear.

I close my eyes and feel the space,
I hear the water sweeps and sails.
Even in your coffee cup I see
Drops instead of what should be.
No reflections, only flood,
Today I’m made of bloodless blood.
It drips from ceilings, soft and slow,
Filling the corners where we never go.
And when I finally slip away,
You don’t call me back to stay.

Hold your breath.
Stay right here.
Dive into me.
Don’t fear.

I spill to streets, through doors, through lanes,
Collecting puddles left from rains.
My sense of self turns blurred and wide,
Too many waters mixed inside.
I try to clear what I see,
But all is muddied endlessly.
The different waters blend and twist,
The world can’t be so simply fixed.

An old-fashioned café.
Your coffee’s cold.
My glass is empty.
Nothing can hold.

But hold your breath.
Stay right here.
Dive into me.
Don’t fear.

23.01.2026

Самый высокий ноль

Побелело и прошло.
Снегом всё замело.
В Цельсиях ноль.
Но самый высокий.
Отражений миллионы.
Витрин слишком много.
Это давит.
Не трогай.

Этой злой собаке двенадцать лет.
Стара, как мои чувства,
что замерзают в обед
и бегут сквозь витрины.
Прячутся.
Элегантно.
Красиво.

В этом городе витрин слишком много.
Никогда не один.
Хотя одиноко.

Беглый взгляд побитой кошки.
Форточка сквозит.
Герань увядает.
Замерзает в окошке.

Чем тверже, тем больнее удар.
Черные дома.
Черные крыши.
Покрывало января
смягчает.
И всё тише.

Лишь отражение мелькает в витринах
От максимального нуля.
От города.
От себя.

21.01.2026

Портрет в желтых квадратах

Слишком много желтых квадратов
Мельтешат на её лице.
И смещаясь от ритмичных набатов,
Она мечтает побыть в тишине.

Ярко красным жгучим светом,
Отвлекая от серых глаз,
Переливами от рассвета
На губах её растеклась

И блуждала по прядям едким,
Что пробором разделены,
Непослушными и заметными,
И висящими как сады,

Как запутанные лианы
лимфатической / нервной системы,
Они вместе рождали драмы,
Насаждая то, что хотели.

И бесцельно блуждали руки,
И костяшками пальцев стучали
По столу из черных дощечек,
Своим ритмом её раздражали.

Белым заревам пыль по стенам
Собиралась и суетилась,
Застревала в её расщелинах,
И забытая, там тихорилась,

Забирая воспоминания
И остатки её безразличия,
Умирая в таком состоянии
Ярко-жёлтом до неприличия.

24.12.2025

Adulthood Sect (a birthday toast)

First of all, I would ask you a question:
why does a birthday matter at all?
A birthday carries quiet sadness
if you truly know.

In my childhood, I was wise,
as if already grown.
Time whispered, “Grow up,”
and I did so.
My soul kept shrinking,
like a shirt that never fit,
until it hung
as nothing but a memory.

Adulthood is a quiet sect,

almost monastic in its rules.
You simply wake one morning
already taken hostage,
expected to know the rules,
to bear a weight
you never chose.

I thought growing meant clarity,
a mind swept clean.
But every order hides its trick,
especially the ritual
of the Adulthood sect.

In my childhood, I should have slept,
small, safe, warm.
But Time leaned close
and commanded:
“Grow up, my little doll.”

To grown-ups, anyway.

12.12.2025