translated by Michael Naydan
I. METRO FANTASY
Color is still not space you try anyway to hew through
this black night facets of light sparkle and a double
sits in the pane opposite the painted doll faded
a rapid line of movement saws his neck
an underground river dried up dinosaurs crammed together in the night
tusks bones broken mirrors voices of apparitions —
this is all the setting for a painting your neck is bleeding
and your head in the pane starts up and your head
through the thickness of a stone sea through a Dnipro River fish and block of ice
through libraries stacks burning a path for itself
a minute flies solemnly to a carnival explosion
its lips move with exertion: I-am-a-fly-ing-head
---
II. UFO
We called the landing boat “C-ATAS-TROPHE”—
all patched up with rubber, any second we’ll sink.
But we have lungs. Healthy blood holds us,
and our excrement makes us light.
We set off sometime long ago at the height of summer.
And since that time could care less about time.
The paths are clear to all epochs and times.
The “ATAS”* in the name glows red!
We were tourists then, but now we’re higher beings!
The cosmic dimension swallowed us right from the waves.
And even though the wind menacingly whistles
From the patched up holes — our motor is still a flying saucer!
A purple streak has lit the sky.
Witnesses dumbstruck in awe.
A sensation! A flying saucer! A catastrophe!
... It’s still the question of — who was watching whom
---
VII
The vertical glass is heavy and sharp
a facet unaware of what it’s cutting
the radius of a pipe Calliostro’s shadow
like an elevator drags me down
colors soil layers of strata
the earthly spirit phantasmagoric blood like moss
fish shards leaves of parting
took pictures of us both
through faces candles and stones
icy glass takes a journey
the mechanisms shadows and falling
the kingdom of shadows like total darkness
caskets tumble into mines
ovens burn wax bodies
and angels emerge to console
sad eyes of glass
this is an underground act — with a cracked bell
and howling in the tunnel smoke
shadows of their arms rush behind the train car
through thick vibrating darknes
---
VIII. THE FLYING HEAD. A PRODUCTION SELF-PORTRAIT
... They assemble the flying head in my likeness
in a mine.
A brigade of vampires in overalls with banging carry
a nine-foot nose.
In the nostrils — fireworks, and wires, and paper streamers
two loud talkers gape downward.
My nose is massive, an ordinary one, a monumental
nose — not for assorted nobility!
Into the three-story carcass a control center
is lowered with a crane,
and the brain is transformed into levers, pedals and a steering wheel.
My forehead — stuffed aluminum — welded by metal specialists,
will be moved down a bit below
– there they fit my eyelids and connect
the juice for the TV screen eyes.
A few more words about the mouth — some dozens of devils push
the jaw-bone,
a snail-giant crawled into it, a boastful liar,
his ‘cellency’s tongue,
the teeth stand guard, no fillings whatsoever,
tongue like a sleeping bull,
two anacondas pressed together hide it,
to keep from getting into trouble.
Here they fit the ears, glue on the skin,
weld the joints — a roar and unbearable heat.
The engineer-luciper-mime turns on the flame in the nozzles.
I’m in a space suit, I’m saying good-bye — let’s get going — I crawl
into my brain.
Half of hell runs up to watch the start.
---
IX. THE VERTICAL
O Holy Virgin
give a sympathetic gaze
and fully illuminate
my hellish heart
I must carry across
the iron night of crosses
without your gaze
I have no strength to fly off.
O Mother of God
I am one of your sons
without your gaze
the stone sky is black
don’t let the strong winds
swallow the fire
enrich my love
miracle-working Mary.
The heavy weight of the earth
the gravity of all times
the rusty blood of misdeeds
envelop my voice
and the night burns to ashes
in the clear skies
I see — I believe
your divine gaze shines.
---
X
It rises up like a head,
the lopped off head of a vagrant.
It utters words from the beyond
once, twice, and for the third time:
I AM THE FLYING HEAD!
The all-seeing flying Baroque
hangs above the city square’s horde.
Blood clots drip in the air, the torn cut
casts a deep and heavy shadow:
I AM THE FLYING HEAD!
An invisible ax has entered the city,
headless bodies are thrown from the scaffold,
gawkers have drunken their fill of cheap blood,
and will scrape off the rusty smudge from the forehead
A GHOST THE FLYING HEAD!
Are you devouring TV soaps?
You gaze at dragons behind the glass!
The wrecking ball from Fellini’s Orchestra*
has come to life and breaks through your wall—
I AM THE FLYING HEAD!
Remember, you can’t hide anywhere!
The square is coming to the hiding places, the square!
The feast rinses the dark cobblestones
and moves to the heavens of the Renaissance
A MASK—THE FLYING HEAD
I AM THE FLYING HEAD
I AM THE HE AD FLY
ING HE AD I
INGHEA I AM
AYO AY O
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