poems by Mykyta Ryzhykh

My boy


my boyfriend says that he only falls in love with geniuses and I fall asleep in the crotch of a crossroads during silent rain

drops speak of the important and insignificant as if about the unborn сhrist

yes, all words are written with a small letter except the word christ

sometimes with a capital letter you can write the word i and the letter i

wet birds beat over a traffic jam

wet people fight with made-up rules

my late boyfriend always called the streets after birds and people


every time I come back to the room with an empty chair

back to the room with an empty heart

I return to the room of the demolished house

walking through the cemetery with mental flowers

skipping work under false pretenses

just to no longer see stone people clinging to hatred

just to see the grave of love more often


here under the arms of the trees is a tombstone

here lies the corpse of love which once again turned out to be useless to anyone






He lived in the taiga

He fed on fears

He fed on the blood of communism

His soft paws had sharp claws

The fingers of anyone he met turned into screams

Boys with rifles couldn’t sleep

Boys with rifles wished they had died

Boys with rifles fell asleep with their bellies ripped open

The prisoners felled the forest without fear

Imprisonment and death are worse than meeting him

But who is he and where did this furry monster come from in the taiga?

Boys inside men died during encounters with this monster

The rifles screamed and died in the depths of the taiga

And the helpless prisoners were supposed to get their death in the taiga

After all death is just a surprise box

The monster came to everyone sooner or later

People died in extermination camps

The roar of the monster and the roar of the gulag echoed over the quiet taiga

Future corpses dug for themselves a grave of shared despair




Love in a concentration camp


The belly is full of earth

The earth is full of bellies

Let it be

Let it not be

The hand is alive touch the hand

Not hand

Touch the spirit

Spirits floated

We were sailing

A five-pointed star of sand floated

Everything went to hell

Оh God


We were flying

In her eyes was the sadness of non-existent love

There was a five-pointed star in my eyes

We lay in the ground




The unknown of love


The unknown of love in which the boat of the body of another drowned man is drowning, trying to get out of the abyss. The madness of loneliness freezes on the water and the silence bursts with bubbles. Tell me, how long have you been chewing the pulp of time in the dark, drinking wine? Your jaw is cramping too. The moon, like a wolf, clings its teeth to the pale skin of silence. In the morning no one will rise again. No one will love you in the morning.






life in the painful

patches of

аutumn leaves

poems by Mykyta Ryzhykh

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