Speaking a different audio reality

I’ve learned Past Simple
for many long years,
but somehow it sleeps

and never appears.
A Brit begins to speak,
their words fly,
turning to drifting sounds
that pass me by.

“Didja go t’th’ shop?” — they say.
I freeze.
“Sorry… I don’t even understand”.

“Wotcha up t’nigh’?
S’Fri, innit — fancy ‘it’n pub?”
I blink, confused, like:

“Could you repeat that, please?”

“If ya din’ know,
I been graftin’ all wk...
Graftin’, bruv!”
And I stand there thinking:
Sorry, guy…
but what do you mean?

I smile, nod wisely —
classic survival mode.
Pretending I caught
at least one word.
Many years of grammar
gone in a single line:
the hardest English
is spoken…
just fine.

28.11.2025

Грачи

Пустеет воздух. Птицы улетели.
И постепенно к нам идут метели.
Ворчливый хоровод грачей лишь иногда
кружит на сером небе, как братва,
И ждет тот день, когда покинет нас.
Ну, а пока их общий черный глаз
всё пристальнее смотрит на помойку
и ждет, что им господь подкинет слойку.
Не первой свежести, не лучшей красоты,
Но все-таки её готовы съесть они.

23.11.2025

Adulthood Sect

When I was five, 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,
and now it hangs
as nothing but memory.

Adulthood is a quiet order.
You never notice entering.
No one gives you its doctrine;
you simply wake one morning
and everyone speaks around you
that language,
expects you to know the rites,
to carry a weight
you never chose.

I waited, God, I waited
for the growns to be wise,
bright, something like Dante,
with endings that teach.
I thought growing meant clarity,
a mind swept clean.
But every order has its trick,
Especially Adulthood scene.

At five, I should have slept, 
small, safe, folded in a blanket.
But time leaned close
and offered one command,
soft as breath,
final as a verdict:
“Grow up.”


23.11.2025

The End is the Beginning

Give me your hand, my friend —
don’t fall, a reward awaits.
Give me your word, my friend,
don’t silence what your soul creates.

This wall of sunset’s glow
hasn’t shone for a long while, I know,
yet still we stand, although
our threadbare faith runs low.

We walk on dead leaves now,
from gardens once in beauty grown,
that fell from every bough…
But please don’t fall, don’t fall… don’t fall alone.

Give me your hand again —
a reward awaits us there,
as soon as we reach the end
of that eternal sunset’s air.

Give me your hand… your hand…
don’t fall, my friend — hold tight.
A reward awaits, and in the sky so clear and grand
a white letter will be written bright

by white clouds drifting slow,
and in the heaven’s trembling gleam
all of our names will float and flow,
and swim, and swim, and swim.

19.11.2025

Грань

Постоянно спрашиваю себя:

Где грань между описанием мира
и его созданием через язык Эфира?
Я не знаю точнее, системнее:
объекты, их свойства и взаимное рвение.

Где грань между проекцией
и настоящим присутствием?
Даже там, где преобладает отсутствие
надежды, стремления жить, веры в доброе.
Справедливости не существует.
Она утОплена, но —

я спрашиваю себя:
Для чего я здесь?
В мире, где миллиардов не счесть —
разных копий сознания и присутствия,
даже искусственного,
и, порой, искусного.

И всё же — ладони давят на колени,
дыхание ищет воздух. 

Кот выходит из тени,
где узор занавески так чётко очерчен.
Окно открыто,
и ветер —
в комнате ветер.

13.11.2025

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