Alexander Kabanov
Translated by Andrey Gritsman
They say-death is really ticklish, that is why it hides its bony heels: into the funny flip-flops and pantyhose, or into my typos and errors. No, not all the poets are pussy-whipped suckers- I thought, cuddling with death under its little blanket: hey, I'll tickle you to death until you kick the bucket, I'll take revenge for all who suffers under the moon- 'cause I have such looong fingers, fucking long and delicate fingers! But when I saw that her hips are like honey, Her breasts-like Moscato hills of Córdoba, I turned my cell off, closed the curtains, and stuck it into her all the way to my balls. ...Somewhere on Ukraine, amidst cherry gardens- She carried for me son and daughter, in the cradle buckets, over the peoples, over the produce and over juices and soft drinks. They say-in the fall Lethe flows into Pripyat*, village shop is open, there is food and there is drink there. Yids don't work there, no Ukrainians, and not "those," no Russian guys, no zombies, but light-haired kids: the girl has the world's longest fingers, and the boy-world's hardest balls, Instead of giving the change they repeat the same sentence: "There is no death, no death, our Mommy is out on business." *Pripyat: a river in the Ukraine