Victor Neborak

Translation: Michael M. Naydan

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.

VI.  A KISS

...And the aftertaste of death on lips.

Wine in a skull dully reverberates,

the drunken crowds of insensible faces          

and your eyes in mirrors. 

Graces carry charms.

I spit on all this,

it’s not for me to know the rue

and vampires who sap souls.

Their bloody lips are laughter

that knocks over golden piasters.

In the fury of dance                                          

their buttocks and breasts have fused together.         

A star in your eye suits your face.                  

It does not burn me—                                                            

take my lips in remembrance.

I drink this evening to the end.

Without lips I look like an ironic horror                     

that would turn into a fanged vampire

with the tender soul of a dandelion

if not for eyes in mirrors.

MONOLOGUE FROM A CANINE PRETEXT

The body of the deceased was found in a ditch
in the middle  of a yard hung on
a hook and they buried him beyond the garden.

Fido’s1 hung himself—suicide-dog!

Fido’s soul’ll be hounded from heaven.

They’ll tell him: “You didn’t croak the way you should have!”

Then they’ll lift him up by the tail and…

Fido’s hung himself on his chain at night.

The real nightly R movie2— rats viewers

sighing, wooing,

curling up, and love-making!

Fido’s hung himself! Do you hear?—you!

Are you reading Leaves of Grass?

Marquez? Borges? Hesse? The I Ching? Ah?

Fido’s hung himself! That’s the change!

You’re called a poet,

                        and he’s—a dog.

A poem gnaws at you,

                        a chain—at him.

Someday you’ll be a pro poetaster,

but Fido  choose not meat, but the spirit!

How much can you bark at the moon?                    

How long can you wait for your paycheck?

How much can you scrape our backsides?

Forever?

Till death!

What a schizophrenic profession—

to tend chickens and goats

and send them off to be butchered?

The Constellation of the Dog

piercez through the earth and heavens!

1 “Dzhulbars” in the original—a typical name for a Ukrainian dog. This particular canine poem has a real event at its basis. Victor Neborak’s  dog Dzhulbars strangled himself on his chain. Thanks to Yuri Andrukhovych for illuminating me about this.

2 “Notsne” is in Polish in the original and refers to the practice in Soviet times of going to a friend’s house in Western Ukraine, someone who had a strong antenna and could receive signals from Polish TV to watch films from the west—usually with heavy dose of eroticism or horror.

V. METRO FANTASY. REFLECTIONS

He sees himself before himself

he sees himself transparent,

he sees a transparent colored shadow

a moving shadow in the air

it utters words and all at once goes silent it utters words

he takes a step it comes to meet him

face to face eyes

overlap pass through

a mirror of glass thickens

raise my eyelids

THERE HE IS

my shadow in me

bat wings grow

fangs and fingers grow

shadow grows through the body

the stinger sniffs out blood