Все от винта! [Vse ot vinta!] [English translation]

A palm on my shoulder.

A stamp

on one of the wings,

Snafu at the barracks:

a triple S day – dry spaces are tight,

My journal gets damp. I am walking the earth just to ease

My farewell of a flight.

Three beats - to the ball

of wax figurines,

A quarter - to death.

Some seven odd hides

reap a fistful of fur – odd.

Shall my drive to exist

be as strong as to sing? - No less.

Tie my thread in a little knot.

Cold April yields

hot dreams which boil the blood

Infected with germs

of virally new tunes,

As every target of the nearest war has laughed

Revealing her craving for love and her youth.

Let the caring doctor

hit the vein and spare the nerve

With the needles of rays, fill syringes with curatives solar.

Don’t cry, don’t you cry. Be still and observe

Love foaming through

the throat.

Catch her, catch –

on your lips. For the tumblers shall not suffice.

A torpedo of sounds

strikes the chord, so – drink!

Look: an ad on a banner of the last of the springs – flies,

Rocks this square window, and the square window – swings.

A punctured temple. Blind hordes on the rise.

Do dare to dodge your exemption,

to shed your mail.

My spoils of war – a chunk of my trophy ice

I kiss as I silently near the flame.

Us – the -mongrels-by-rats –

we are the bird’s adoptees.

And each fiend by his third

still remains hard-a bullet.

Lie low and witness

a nuclear prince

Ascend with his whip

as a ruler.

Don’t weep, don’t you weep. For whom would we cry?

That’s the likes of us orphans

make the ranks of the braves!

The time is up, our time to fly!

Hey you ‘all! Clear of the blades! Keep clear of the blades!

• Artist:Alexander Bashlachev