«I’ll sew myself a pair of black trousers / from the velvet of my voice. / A yellow smock from three yards of sunset. / I’ll saunter along the Nevsky Prospect of the world, / along its polished strips, / with the step of Don Juan and a fop. Let the earth, gone to seed from neglect, ye...»
«A / street. / Mastiff / faces / sharp- / er / than years. O- / ver / iron horses / the first cubes leapt / from the windows of running houses. / Swans of bell necks / curve themselves in nooses of cables! / In the sky a cartoon giraffe is about / to show off motley rusty ...»
«When the noisy day quiets down / and the translucent shadow of night descends / on the muted streets of the city, / sleep–the reward for the day’s works – is granted to normal men. / But for me, agonizing hours of insomnia / drag by in silence. / In the dead stillness my conscience...»
«I drink to this ruined home, / To my evil life, / To our mutual loneliness, / And I drink to you — To the lie from the lips that betrayed me, / To the deadly coldness of your eyes, / To the fact that the world is cruel and crude, / To the fact that God did not save us.»