«I returned to my city familiar to tears, / To my vessels and tonsils of childhood years, You returned here again, then devour and cram / The fish oil from Leningrad’s hurricane lamps. Then at once recognize the December daytime / Where egg yolk is mixed in with road tar noxious slime. Pet...»
«Supper sky fell in love with a bulwark / All is slashed with pink scars of light threads — / Having fallen upon it was thrown back / And transformed into thirteen odd heads. / There you are, my nighty-night heaven, / Like a young boy I’m here to face you — / Chills run down my back...»
«At once I smeared the map of boredom / By spilling pigments from a tumbler; / I formed an oceans’ jagged cheekbones / Atop the crest of aspic platter. / I read the summons of fresh youth / on rusty glint of fish scale tin. / So could you / take / a drainpipe flute / and play a ...»
«In about an hour into a tidy alley / flabby fat of yours will leak from here one by one. / I opened to you my poems treasure trove bravely / I, the prized words profligate and prodigal. Hey you, sir, your mustache still has some cabbage / caught from a soup half-eaten somewhere and left ...»