Last fiasco

My last fiasco,
Your profile, roman and arrogant,
With half-scornful grin
Is looking somewhere opposite direction from me.
Those fairy-tales about complications and wrongs
I’ve got tired of a long time ago.
There is nothing more you can harm.

My last fiasco,
With impudent and vulnerable gaze,
The weak dream of broken illusions is torn apart already,
All the colors faded in reality,
The essence became imaginary vibrancy,
When behind the wall somebody’s saxophone started whining.

My last fiasco,
A baby with Child-Harold smile,
Speeches of a fallen angel
And strange passion for September,
Take off your mask, at least, in the epilogue.
Forget about your far-fetched role.
I do thank you for the lesson you taught me.

My last fiasco,
Last wave of sweet pains,
Last try of my fantasy for flight with a wing cut off.
What I was afraid of, came true, so good-bye.
Who knows what curve is waiting for us.
I’ll hope for ascent.

Last love

There were just two of us in this huge wide world,
Decorated by guitar and a tent by the lake,
Surrounded by forest and hills…
And shower of stars, poring from the sky as hope.

Adam and Eve…
It seemed, we remained pure before tasting the evil spell.
It is horrible to think that, one beautiful night, exactly like this one,
Once upon the time, the desire of two conceived Kane.

Whatever it was, Fortune’s games, nonsense or miracle,
But the walls of the fortresses of our refractory foreheads failed.
In that bonfire, next to the grilled marshmallows, my last fiasco was burning,
That night gave birth to my Last Love.

Kiss me, Serge

I belong to no one. I walk by myself, like that cat who doesn’t belong to anyone either.
Kiss me, Serge.
Fall for me, in spite of ours stupid fates.
Tune my guitar and I’ll sing about unexpected turnings of long roads and all circles of Hell we’ve both been through.
Kiss me, Serge.
I’ll sing about how gorgeous you are. Every time you kiss me again and again my shoulders die under your hands.
Kiss me, Serge.
I might even forget about Him - that other man I dreamed for so long. It would be nice though: he looks like a romantic, but acts like a sadist.
Kiss me, Serge.
You came alone, just looked and won.
I don’t care to be careful anymore. I am fed up with worrying about the gossips. I am tired of fears. I am in love with the sound of your name. From now on I will put it in every line of mine, so –
Kiss me, Serge.
I will pretend to be in love with you. I’ll try to be your faithful wife – maybe, as long as an entire day.
Kiss me, Serge.
I want to explode. And then, who knows, I might even learn to be nice to people – just like that cat who doesn’t belong to anyone either.
Kiss me, Serge.
To my beloved one

Your voice is poison.
I wish to take it in until the last drop.
Your hand is choking smog of burned bridges.
Your moral is easy on you.
We don’t know what we do.

Your eyes are two abysses of darkness from hell.
They also are my sold out concerts, applauses and flowers.

Your love is my endless curse, my sweet cross, my false God.

Let go!
The whip is powerless here and the bread got stale.
So out of the way,
My rescuer, my executioner!

You are quiet now,
You are searching for new agitations.

The Creator must cry, forgiving sins of both of us.

Nostalgia
To the memory of Marina Tcvetaeva, great Russian poet, who was led to the point of strangling herself on the door in village named Elabuga


Dusty garden of a dirty church-porch, drunk looks, gloomy jokes…
My homeland never was a mother to me, just wicked punishing step-mother.
It never missed to reward writers generously with scaffold, oblivion, labor camps,
Hara-kiri, heart attacks, shots, if not noose – then strangulation in Elabuga.

Dishonored, shamed, blamed, fooled, betrayed us…
It destroyed spirits in wars, fights, threats, by speeches, denunciations, excommunications.
We were banished, we were outcast.
The nicest outcome ever was Expulsion.

I don’t need to be stained with nostalgia.
Don’t tell me the fairy-tales about changes.
I am from those, rancor step-daughters,
Who don’t want blood, but expect repentance.

The planet is still poisoned by labor camps,
Which have not been destroyed to this day.
Some trains are still waiting for the prisoners –
Aren’t they really waiting for poets?

Even when I am old, sick and ugly,
Even in depression, delirium, despair, -
I’d rather die, then return to my homeland.
I don’t trust its promises.

* * *
I like the classic style of a romance.
I hate all stamps of banality.
I don’t care squabbles.
Who can keep obedient silence!
I’m not worth much?
Possibly, but I am who I am,
It’s boring to be someone different.
I do not agree to appear to others as your sister,
So what, you don’t want me as a wife?
My dream castle doesn’t protect much,
On the ground I wouldn’t defeat an aphis.
The scars from all kinds of straps wore me out.
I am not strong enough to tighten that noose.
So life keeps writing merciless lines for me,
Disproving nice quotes,
That kind defeats evil,
That it is bad to be mean and cruel,
That honor and wisdom rule it.
Why, not even thinking about Golgotha, I still climb a scaffold every day?

Depression in December

Every December brings depression.
The loneliness comes up with colds.
The words, lines and songs don’t appear in mind.
I am out of smiles, out of life.

Neither vodka, nor cigarettes, nor affairs,
Nor my guitar,
Nor howling like a wolf
Rescue me. There is no escape.

My Fortune, you are such a traitor.
Where diamond just sparkled, -
A steam of vapor is teasing.
Everything passes, changes, melts away, like light smog.

You won’t draw me in tears.
The stroke hurts, but pain will disappear.
God, help me to sustain just this one: a knife in the back…
And that one: the fist into the solar plexus…

Only prayers are good companions for winter.
The child-crib is rocking my dreams.
I know, the spring will start anyway, no matter what.
I will imagine it for now.

Copyright, Liliya Khaylis.
All right reserved by author.