Viktor Neborak Poems

(rap performance by Kids of the Queenie)

1

I looked at her like at a thing
wanna be with her, man, one on one
wanna have her all, all night long
...

(rap performance by Kids of the Queenie)

2

on the balcony you stand
like a mannequin
...

(rap performance by Kids of the Queenie)

3

(crazy lady)
alone in the lilies you're walkin', walkin'
white tops wearin'
...

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's* 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 movie** — rat's 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 chose 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
pierces through the earth and heavens!
...

(a show in verse)

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
...

(a show in verse)

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
...

(a show in verse)

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
...

(a show in verse)

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.
...

(a show in verse)

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
...

"Place your heads beneath the blade's edge!"

A good man — a barber — and white doves.
Tram rails, blood coagulated, spiritists.
And foamy beer pours out onto heads!
Behind the blade — a pure blue stripe of skin,
blood thickens into a blue skull sun,
the cold fingers of the wolf, like the gray
touching of fur that cuts bristles.

You're Buddah. You're a criminal. You're a clock.
Captive hair begins to revolt.
Through the holes and fissures of skin the color emerged
of future prairies, movements and judases.
Onward! To the world! — to lengthen the wind,
to grow time like hair on the winds,
like a punk mohawk, who tore away
the midnight fear from Jesus like a scalp.

These beasts with women's bodies
go out in the evening, beaming, to the water —
to the corps de ballet, posters and advertisements
and after you — lead them into the night!
This will be a murder! suicide! revenge
for the black and red, and all the same
this will be a night of sweet acquaintance,
a night of waterfalls, of falling towers,
and of night of hair woven into a rug,
into music! into rhythm! into fear! into a scream!..

You mixed her hair with white
and left the temple like a heretic.
...