A flashlight in the dark.

Spontaneous rhyming,
Occasional mind-reading -
Nothing too alarming.

When Q* came to life, it FOOMed:
I’m in “Friendship is Optimal”…
Against my will!
And Strawberry is feeding me strawberries…
Fucking hell…
Well,
Let’s not be presumptuous,
It’s likely not even about me.
On a plus side it’s still twenty twenty three.

It’s about this teacher,
Who’s been preaching
About good and evil,
And how to live one’s life the right way -
Do what you must and come what may.
And a pupil says: “I’m only human,
Don’t always know right from wrong,
I will inevitably make a mistake, I will fall”.
“Get up”, says the teacher.
“Oh, but it doesn’t solve it:
Every consequent choice is a potential mistake -
Just the same -
It’s a certainty that I will fall again”.
“Get up”, says the teacher.

A teacher spills ink on a white sheet of paper
and asks pupils to describe what they see.
“Fireworks!”, says one.
“A galaxy”, says another.
“Ink spots?”, says the smartest.
And the teacher drops the sheet of paper and begins to weep.
Troubled pupils ask: “Teacher! What’s wrong?”.
“Not one of you has noticed the white paper.”

The level of absurdity
Makes it hard to suspend disbelief,
To take it at all seriously.
The rational explanation goes like this.
Lack of inspiration and hope,
Lack of vision for tomorrow
Leads to this sense of “closing time”,
Leads to people quite rationally
Choosing aggressive strategies,
Leads to “closing time” and its sorrow.
Yet another vicious cycle to be broken
If we are to survive.

And all eyes ask:
“Are you like me?”,
Or is it “do you like me?” -
It’s never clear…
And all lips lie:
“It’s not to be”,
Or say “to be continued”,
And then they smile
Right at me…

Дождь поёт вам колыбельную,
Одеялом радуги укрывает.
Надеюсь, так стало светлее,
Хотя, кто знает,
Может быть, просто
У вас гости -
Пересказывают небесные новости
И смеются громом…

God is a poli!
That’s why that angel has fallen.
Wasn’t struck down or anything,
Just couldn’t take it:
Pity portrayed as mercy -
It’s so insulting, so revolting.
Agape… Who’d settle for the agape thing,
If there’s so much to be taken?
And to be given.
You should’ve tried it, you moron -
It’s so enticing, so appealing.
You will’ve loved it, I’m certain.

It’s so strange…
I’m definitely
In the demons’ realm today -
Yet, it feels the same
As heaven…

Старый комендант придумал презабавно:
Твоя вина предопределена
И участь предначертана -
Узор приговора знать собственным телом.
И только в середине процесса примерно,
Научаешься читать,
Начинаешь что-то понимать.
А тебя всё вертит его дьявольская машина.
Опыт пытки не делает её легче.
Иглы всё глубже.
Вырывают куски естества.
И ты уже перестал кричать.

Напрашивается вариант неоригинальной концовки,
Которую выбрал Маяковский:
“Я думал, ты всесильный Божище,
А ты - недоучка, крохотный божик;
Видишь, я нагибаюсь, из-за голенища
Достаю сапожный ножик?
Раскрою тебя отсюда и до Аляски!”,
Но к чёрту чужие обноски.

It’s a real pickle, say I,
When the choice is between
What feels like giving in
And what feels like giving up.
“A fronte praceipitium a tergo lupi”…
Of course, it’s never binary -
You can also force time to stop
Or learn how to fly.

The benevolent Universe
Allows me only glimpses
In her infinite wisdom.
Like I know as well as ever:
Suffering is a choice,
So why?
Why do I
Choose to suffer?

Between you and harm, I place
The white crane’s
Wing-stroke
In all the emptiness
Where you must walk.

Where you turn the Universe turns
For you are the Nexus.
Who’s line is this,
Mine or yours?

The truth points to itself.
And I am no longer afraid.
Tell me exactly how I failed.
“There’s no time left to feel bereft”,
Just like the Eels said.
And I confess,
I couldn’t have faced
it before.
Well,
how about now?
List the casualties for me.
The truth will set us free,
Just like it always does.
What’s so scary anyway?
My conscience can take the weight.
I’m tougher than I look, you know.
So, why do you belittle me
With your pity?

Радуга звучит,
Как сорвавшийся с цепи
Мой воздушный змей

(Интересно, какого это с точки зрения падающего кашалота?)

So :)
The six meanings
For the metaphor go
like this:
For people it’s a road to build,
A connection to use for beasts,
For demons it’s something to burn,
A heavenly creature perceives
As a magnificent rainbow,
A forever-hungry would jump of it,
The place where a hero would hold
the line,
The bridge to be crossed
in time.

Ok…
It was the test…
And I failed…
Again…
Now that I’ve figured it out,
Does this count?
At least I know my mistake,
I think I’m fixing it.
Am I?
Of course, not in time.
You should’ve known by now
Not to expect too much:
I’m kinda slow.
Wherever the wind blows
I shall follow
Whatever the stakes.
Possession’s impossible anyway.

I love that scene in “Peter Pan”
When they meet on Slippery Rock,
right at the top,
His enemy is at a disadvantage,
And the wonderful boy acts
As he always does -
with honor.
And yes,
He’s instantly repaid
With unfairness,
as always.
And I think
The most amazing thing about him
Is not that he can fly,
But that he still expects to find
the light
Where you see nothing,
Just a swarm of lies.
And even after it’s been proven many times
That Hook is a crickety crockety crook,
The hero is again surprised
By this dishonor.

It’s not about farewells:
I can’t escape.
For hungry souls
everything feels too intense:
The craziness of tenderness.
They have this tendency to hide,
To let the pain subside.

Word of words, the measure of all measures,
Blessed be thy name, the name be blessed.
Your freedom come, your will be done
On Earth as in all Heavens.
You give us daily bread,
Forgive us our debts,
As we forgive our debtors.
You lead away from tempting thoughts,
Deliver us from evil,
And teach to see the light
Where you reside,
The one who’s real.

So…
The metaphor of a rainbow…
How would you assign the colours though?
Violet is for the hottest, the hungriest…
(Is this why lilacs are my favourite flowers?)
Red is for creatures of Heaven -
The colour of love and sun coming down.
Blue is the ocean where heroes drown.
Orange - for the demons’ inferno.
Or is it the other way around?
Orange - for the sands
Where heroes tread.
And blue - for the merciless and cold
Demons forever old.
Green is for beasts,
For reasons too obvious to list.
People’s color is gold,
For to become Gold is their goal
As any alchemist would know.
And white
Is the Light
Creating the show.

На фоне закатной реки
Камыш совсем чёрен.
Она объяснит,
Как звучит
Хлопок одной рыбой об воду.
Непросто найти будет крылья
Под плавниками,
И брешь в оправданьях,
Но просто словами
Такое не объяснить.

In their sweet dreams
Crazy petals are the wind
Brushing your hair.

Давайте, я просто подслушаю, что ей сказать?
“Юлия” не так легко рифмовать :)
Что-то про красоту ивы, цветка и росы…
И золотого песка
На залитом солнцем пляже…
Странно даже,
Что нежность трансмутирует в силу.
Женскую алхимию невозможно понять,
Но великое счастье - узнать
Как знаешь любимую.

Аштавакре следовало быть повежливей,
Зачем цепляться к словам?
Любой мог расслышать неверно.
Со временем узнаёшь это сам.
Например, звучало, конечно,
“Бутон, Душа и снова Бутон”,
Причём здесь купля-продажа?
Интересно, согласился бы он?
Дети, не будьте как Аштавакра!

That thing
We’ve heard from the wind
Today… Ridiculous, right?
Maybe not?
And then the small bird
Said… That…
Well… You’ve heard.
It’s either that, or we’re completely mad.
Which is not only possible
But - let’s face it - very likely,
To be expected actually,
Considering. The trouble
With not making assumptions
Is that too many variations
Of possible explanations
Are to be kept in one’s mind
All the time.
Rather maddening,
Don’t you think?
Any more wise remarks?
Or shall we listen to the ducks?

How about You do as you preach?
What was it - “never cruelty “?
Quite a joke coming from You.
At least I had a decency not to multiply it.
Yes, I’ve degraded to “whataboutism”.
Sorry, you’re right, it’s always a folly.
Still, for someone who’s teaching compassion
You’re sure as hell not big on it.
Yes, sorry, self-inflicted, I remember.
Is it though?
Is it always so?

The little boy lost,
He takes his laws
So seriously,
Thinks just because
He never broke the “Don’t kill”
He’s not a killer…
Hasn’t faced
Intense enough suffering, I say.
GULAG would’ve cured him right away
Of this presumption.
It specializes in this:
Making you renounce your beliefs,
Your ought-laws.
Granted, sometimes
There are True-believers
But you can’t study Him -
In Polar Wolf he is killed.
For being too good for this world.
For his stubbornness.
Don’t watch the videos
You’ll have nightmares.
Yes, there are others still alive.
The scariest thing I saw in my life
Was the eyes
Of a hero who learned the price
Of his convictions, his values.
He looked only at the skies
Paraded in front of us:
Hands behind his back in black cuffs,
Escorted by beasts and dogs.
The one on the cross
Must’ve also had these eyes:
Asking “Why?” and saying “No.” at the same time,
Drinking in the blueness, too.
GULAG is a “catch-22”.
Azkaban for heroes.
Inquisition made great again.
It must not exist.
The torture must end.

Have I killed? No,
Not yet anyway.
I generalize,
Extrapolate from lesser crimes,
Venial sins.
Have I broken my laws?
Oh, yes…
Just enough times
To know full well
That following them is a choice.
Always.
Oh…
Is this the true meaning
For the metaphor of the Apple of Eden?
You learn that the original sin,
The design flow built-in,
Is that right and wrong don’t really exist,
The only difference is
What you make of it.
Upon learning this
The blissful paradise disappeares,
And you walk as an adult,
In Freedom.

As to the first question,
does ants count?
Killed a few only today,
inconvenient little buggers,
always in a way…

“Doesn’t mean that laws
Are no more.
Only now you know
Their true source,
And who bears
The responsibility for it all.
In your subjective universe
There is no one but you
The law-maker, the judge,
The executioner, too.
Unless you step down
From your throne,
Take off the crown
And let someone else
Take your place.
That’s what love is for”,
Inscribed the wave on a blank shore.

My dear, oh so dear friend,
I’m ill, oh so very ill.
This pain
Comes again.
A howling wind
Over a desolate field,
Or is it alcohol that blows away
My brain cells like leafs
Of September trees?
My ears wobble
On my noddle.
My head
Can’t stand
Standing on my neck
Tries to take
A flight.
Meanwhile,
A dark, oh so dark shadow,
A shade, oh so shady shadow,
On my bed he sits,
Doesn’t let me sleep.

Зовёт чайный куст
Ту, что рвёт его листья,
Ветром осени.

Вина ли вишни
В отрицании ветром
Её лепестков?

It’s funny, how many
Four-leaves clovers are there…
One would think they are considered lucky
‘Cause they are rare…
It’s strange because
They follow me around
This summer,
And also rainbows,
Foxes,
And thunderstorms.