Christ’s tomb

valley  mourns among cooling down rocks
Pharisees prepare a grave for God
pale lifeless Christ’s  limbs  lie on a bench
Mary   mourns, Magdalen mourns
among nosing about  rats and voiceless cats

day grieves, heart drizzles
you are unable to forsee
there will be greater light
‌than   stale sun has in store for thee

inspired by https://artschaft.wordpress.com

Preparation of Christ’s Tomb by Carpaccio. (1505)

Thank you.

when love is not enough

 

 

 

if he calls you by name of Rosalina, Helen or Ann
don’t pay any attention
be the one
he is your romeo anaway
it s just memoria trifles
She is one more sister one more sister

he needs fight
psychosis of stars
depression of earthbelly

words are not enough

 

I am Tsvetaeva ‘s barbie
you are Yesenin’ s Ken
we jump and hop, hiphop
we swing
we dress and undress
I weave my hair
you sip rye whisky

hop and fall
dolls with spread arms in the form of a cross, stuck
hop hop hop
hop and seek
we are only dolls
don’t take them close to your heart

pretty woman, yeah, yeah, yeah
pretty woman look my way
tune at the cafe soaks into
plastic of twisted liana and palms
in the middle of high winter
frostbite

 

 

 

 

 

Marina Tsvetaeva and Sergey Esenin are both greatest Russian poets of the twentieth century
<a href=”https://allpoetry.com/Marina-Ivanova-Tsvetaeva”>https://allpoetry.com/Marina-Ivanova-Tsvetaeva</a&gt;
<a href=”https://allpoetry.com/Sergei-Aleksandrovich-Esenin”>https://allpoetry.com/Sergei-Aleksandrovich-Esenin</a&gt;

My valentine

I am
only
a girl
in your arms
in the darkness
I cling to your body with all my limbs folding into you like the sea that washes the feet of the rock cliff

cherish these rare moments, silly
what else do you need

in branches piled up with snow
a bird sings February love
as if it were the wing of spring

in moonlit room
citrine stones around my neck
fall from the chain and scatter on the floor
sparkling, the sea, waves, Koktebel hills

when you love
you fall
and fall
it feels like flying
where
physical body extends into
spiritual reality

 

I wade through thick forest, night carnival
devils grip my neck and hips
with masculine power
vampires masquerade like holy angels trying to convince me that you are a werewolf
witches whisper lies
into my ears with icy breath
zombies rotten skin cling to my betrayed body
I go through night carnival
with faith
you are light, a prince bewitched

 

 

 

shades of blue

You love dirty language on silk sheet in king size bed

 

I am a rose
and thorns
a rose
and thorns
you can cut off my prickles
not to hurt yourself
but they are God designed

what kind of pussy can pull the trigger
but he writes magic and you forgive his being a coward

 

 

sacrifice

17 year old girl swings
and swings on a swing
all days and nights
in the sea
a nymph
she skips all blank pages
obsessed, they say

 

he likes purified spirit
a woman screams
he drinks it
window frost- his art decor

 

when I am frozen to the bone
on the snow
cut little hearts and crosses with a razor blade
I won’t scream
quietly I lose my consciousness
I might fly to the darkness of the sky to the stars
excarnation

 

 

If I have to choose
between man and God
I choose my man
so that to find God real

 

people who are in love, holy
all lovers are holy even if they have gone away

there is still magic
in words Forgive me
you utter
i am at your knee
a blind puppy licks your wounds

 

Forlorn letter

andrew-wyeth-frostbitten (3)

 

while they rub noses against each other
weaving silk of romance
you, painstakingly cut my flesh into ice cubes and pack them into a freezer

mom, when i am with him
I forget who I am and where I am
sung in pop song
it could be written at all crossroads
where beloveds meet
without traffic light and regulations
eternity bites with amnesia

winter is a sound of crescendo
behind the window
flight or fight of invisible particles
and we lie
those apples on cracked sill, God is near like our breath

 

 

 

 

Some sort of pressure must exist; the artist exists because the world is not perfect. Art would be useless if the world were perfect, as man wouldn’t look for harmony but would simply live in it. Art is born out of an ill-designed world.

Andrei Tarkovsky