gun behind belt
   my teeth like a
   puzzle fit

melt naval ports
ey bigguy
whadjew need

   i think
   she shells seashells
   while he shills seesaws

three shades of green
reflected in black
yellow  ultramarine

   I squeeze
   the unruly
   palms of trees

I buy undead flesh
in knots (what lasts
in my luggage rots

This is my translation of Александр Розенбаум [Aleksander Rosenbaum's] «Рождение стихов». While (because of my belief in the primacy of rhythm and sound) I have deviated somewhat from the original text, the essence of the original song remains.

In addition, I also subtitled a recording of Rosenbaum's performance using my translation.

I often came to term,
Under my heart a burden.
I am afraid that now
Will come my fatal blow.
My doctors—every one—are showoffs all and slovens,
And what they truly want themselves they'll never know.

And if verse is to die,
Without the world offending,
So why does still live on
He who sinned in the night,
He who caressed a quill, espying endless women,
And he who burned his fingers, lighting up, on candles' fickle light?

The poems knock on doors
Imperious and trusting.
Intent on breaking bone,
And ravenous for meat,
But they are not to be, despite all labours' thrusting,
And chills my chest now terribly the filial heat.

Contractions I'll endure,
I wait for them to end soon.
From all the night's distress,
The painful kicks—a curse—
I do not want to bear the cemetery cedars
Towards the silent mound of stillborn verse.

I do not want to bear the cemetery cedars
Towards the silent mound of stillborn verse.

Towards this all now moves,
He who shall seek shall find it.
But what shall find the one—
My germinating moan?
The telephone stands still and empty is the mailbox.
My doctors all have plenty problems of their own.

The telephone stands still and empty is the mailbox.
My doctors all have plenty problems of their own.

 a boy working the cash register
 at the safeway
 screws up his pretty eyes

 the bananas won't scan
 so he calls over another boy
 to poke at the machine

 i scan his features  enumerating
 jeans shirtcollar glasses
 and the eyes they frame

 when finally it's my turn
 i fantasize about
 the bananas being free

(some small distraction
 from the letters on his nametag
 & his lips when he asks

 did you find everything alright?

the neon
blue
clock on the wall
says
it's after one
but this place is open
forever


when the food comes
I admire its shapes
& its fresh
lattices

when the food comes
I cut my pleasure
into small pieces
with a steak knife


I cut
&
cut but the mouth
de
mands silent he
gemony so I feed
the mouth


when a thought comes
I admire its shapes
& its colours
but it has no flesh

when the thought comes
so I try to cut
it too but thoughts are
so unlike plea


sure
the
neon blue clock
on
the wall says &
I have to
agree

the poet
can do anything
except deal with these
creamy
offwhite pages

the poet is
older
now
somewhat happy but
not

as they say
fully
actualised
just moving
forward

margaret atwood is too broad
a search term

   you're looking at dystopia
   in the handmaid's tale

   we use our heads
   we do the work

      sometimes you've gotta go
      aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh


can you see the power
of subject headings

   if it's not linear
   you're doing good

  (we ran into this
   with the tomato soup thing

      we used our noggins
      and we did a keyword search


you bait the end of the fishing hook
with what you think you're going to pull in

   they are our friends
   the boolean operators

   yes that's accurate
   hang on to that

can I pull it out
I ask the bar girl

she says  wait a minute
enter the pin


the way she touches you
as you dance


the colour of exchange
taints me

i want to trade
tit for tat


you're richer
than you think


says the hermit to the stranger
in the looking glass

how did you win
the battle of thermopylae


with those
thighs