poems by Mykyta Ryzhykh

***

 

Prostitutes are much preferable to spouses

After all, according to tradition, immediately after the wedding, women are killed by sewing up their vaginas, and men are usually sent to war

(War blooms crystal: war for men: forced homosexuality or forced homophobia?)

As a child (I was born from the dust of material/ism),

I dreamed of becoming a whore so that I could afford everything that I lacked as a child

But it turned out that I’m a freak

Nobody likes me: еven the dog refused to chew my bloody leg

Have you ever tried to chop a leg with an axe?

It’s useless, just like living

For the second day now, flies have been laying larvae in my festering wounds.

I give birth to the future by slowly killing myself

I fuck my roommate because I know that his stomach will not give birth to anything but feces

I lick my neighbor’s anus in the hope that I will suffocate during this process

The toilet leaks even more than the roof of a destroyed house

People steal money from the air

People even steal air and send it to their homes by mail

People steal everywhere: at work, at a party while receiving asylum for refugees

I’m the only one who can’t steal

I don’t even know how to steal money from my own talent

My leg hurts so much it feels like my heart is somewhere in my shin

I no longer have a heart or a soul

My leg hurts and I wish my anus hurt

I dream of being a whore in a world sold to/for nobody

Once again I fall asleep with blood instead of sperm on my lips

 

 

 

***

 

Teach war to begin at dawn when the sun teaches your eyes to close and your hands pray to anti-tan cream

Ban fighting before and during lunch in order to feed soldiers’ corpses to death

After noon and until the evening you can die calmly and live anxiously

In the evening the stars will compose a fairy tale about a hero no one wanted who died gloriously

At night the walls of darkness burn red and the smell of dirt and sweat fills the barracks crowded with survivors

Blankets clean of sperm hint that the next morning no one will be born anywhere except for war

 

 

 

***

 

no one

wakes up

every night

in the cemetery

 

 

 

***

 

the tree sheltered a family

of birds under its crown

how many people can

hide a tree under their skin

 

not a single human throat

blossomed with silent green outward

no man in the world has yet

counted how many times

he kissed his wife on the lips

how much sperm from

lovers on the lips of a quiet wife

(so much sperm in the mouth

did not dream of any gay)

 

while people with a white (empty) conscience go from house to house

filling windows with despair

the tree is silent

the tree screams

with the help of the wind

but no one notices

 

while white-eyed men chop off the hands

of trees and gays

their wives sew vaginas like rags

for their daughters

daughters will certainly

be widows of soldiers

 

homeless pigeons gather in heaven

the smell of blood is in the air

blood mixed with semen

 

 

 

***

 

we are gathered together like clouds

our clouds scatter across the sky

 

angels count the raindrops on the faces of those who cry

those who cry count the drops of tears of homeless angels

 

poems by Mykyta Ryzhykh

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