The vibrations of an Aeroflot in an imaginary land crossed by the NGOs of
Mother Russia
in a landscape with birch trees mega-buildings far away in the forest
oblique-eyed women mixture of olive or pale cheeks
soft look scented honey in cups
apples oranges and fog
hot airplanetickets having a melody thousand kilometers away from the fringes of the
Iron Curtain
The abrupt conversations all in one breath
with the soul on the lips flashing in the strong smells of some rooms
painted recently and heavily
Huge candlelight-trees projected over the Internet
two women dressed in posh black trying to merchandise cosmetics
on the stairs of the conference hall in the academic city
Andrei Tarkovski telling something not necessarily for me
A few treacherous words like
democracy institutions legalno reformo niet
and a bottle of unopened champagne in room no. 99 of a 12 September
so familiar
indecipherable paper reams and the human tide of the former empire
blasts of some massive men dressed in leather clothes with immense shoulders
throwing their mobile phones from one hand into another in
cigarette smoke and bottles of beer
laughter
slow fretting cool air torn by the night JETs
corks from bottles of champagne celebrating a poor world
toasting in the camera flash and the tinfoil of Siberian chocolate
peeling off from the enormity of the “sleeping” power of Mother Russia
the suburbs of our world
the fragrances of
the translators and the wooden houses and tiny gardens
aligning two three rows of cabbage heads
among which heads with long beards straight cut are sliding slowly
and ancient
on the right the structure of a new world and of a new way of accounting
in the buttresses of intelligentsia hidden in the middle of the tundra
from an antique shop a tiger eye ring rolling along
my past
to the end brother Vysotsky
for I heard that “God is right within us,
at most one prayer away” brother Vysotsky
For I have seen you brother Vysotsky marshalling in the flashes of the discotheque
in a fabulous endless marble hall
disguised into some ghostlike pairs who
go arm in arm and hit the air with their boiling blood
Brother Vysotsky the disease of your anxiety is grinding
as I am clenching my fists and wipe the wine flowing from my eyes with my sleeve
while crying in Russian the curses imagined but never understood
I cry brother Vysotsky in your imperial language because I can speak with my soul
about the same cureless torment that runs my mind under the birch trees in search of what you succeeded to find now I am crying brother Vysotsky
with my lips cut by the glass
with my incorrect language and the memory of imaginary touches
while you are marshalling in disguise
through the marble hall of the discotheque of the Siberian kernel
through the tens of comrades who will disappear
will die for ever tomorrow morning
when a loyal gigantic white Aeroflot swimming in the “foams of eternity”
will rock me to another world
in which I will carry under my tongue
the new drop of venom
to spit it in anguish into the cataract of the
like a poem
from an apocalypse at the end of 20th century …
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Petru Iliesu
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* Rap = music genre, predominantly discursive and rhythmic
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