Twenty-first Century Russian Poetry


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