Poems

Loneliness!

Maiastra

The night is moonless. The mountain is lawless. Lonely hall is near the mountain. 
The exiled Decembrist writes poetry therein. 
On the cold stone floor, laying out the blades, 
In the light of the burning candles, 

Thinking the image of a young, brave lady, 
Whose desperate beauty he was fallen smittenly. 
Her voice is wrapping like a cobweb. 
He writes how his heart was wounded,  
 
At this moonless southern night, which is lighter than a lock of her long hairs, 
Due to mayastra's piping gaze and the length of her eyelashes. But he is not in her eyes. 
The piercing brown gaze is recognized to another heart bleeded. 
There, where his heart was, now is emptiness. It is a march time for feet.  
 
He threw trump cards before in his life, led regiments on the squares. 
And now, beeing in these dead swamps, 
languishing from the stench of loneliness and longing, 
He will throw in the hearts: “You will coming!” 

The fate will covered with iamb and choree, 
That makes it easier for him, because the fetters won't be so strongly, 
When he will open the soul for she. 
On the damp earth, falling asleep, he will see dreamly:  
 
There, in the capital city, where the dream will remained, 
With a smile that will engraved in his memory which will memorized 
Hunching over in the boiler room, Tsoi heats the houses. 
You laugh over me vainly. I say you her heady laugh turns on the steet lights!  
 
The horn sounded - it's time to go for him, 
Get on stage, put a chair, with the fight of the strings, 
Play guitar folded verses for a girl is nine star out of ten one 
Entering in the heart to erect her pedestal.  

She is graceful, her skin is dark, she is fast like an obstinate antelope. 
Elegant, smart, good-looking, the living boy told her about that, 
While he was sitting in the trench, he wrote about her on a piece of paper with blade, 
How he fell in love with her shoulders, meanwhile the battle began.  

He had to finish, scratching the wet paper with a bleeded pencil. 
To draw her eyes, they are like the profile of an ibis bird, when she is laughing. 
The corners of her lips look up - this is life loves her, but the boy does not. 
He is not here… 
You will ask: “why is she so good for?" 
I respond: "And the fact that her gaze can raise the cold corpse".

---

long-awaited

Hello to you from cloudy St. Petersburg's squere. 
It's damp and rainy here, but You've a hotly. 
We never saw with you, but we will meet, definitely. 
It'll on the streets our metropolis, - Moskow. 

I will remember that day, I will draw it in my memory. 
That morning we will wander together along the Arbat avenue, 
We will listen the musicians, dance until somebody drops on the knee. 
We will see how the clock goes on the main tower of the city. These moves will fast, faster and so fastly how it can be.

You will hardly believe what is happening when at the same moment they beat off the bits with your name. 
By the way, without your: “Hi. Hello. I forgot about you... vainly" - 
So I feel a dullness, fog and melancholy. In general, here isn't the best weather. But how are you doing? Let's tell me. 
Did you get on well? Do you often wander by the sidewalks alone or together with him now?  
 
Hmm… Moscow… I’m a little thinking dreamly. So, the capital city is not enough for you?? Where are your paths laid down by? Are they like infinity? 
How far will they be? I will pray for your success hopely. 
Wherever you are, be sure to write me. Don’t forget! I’m feeling myself like Pushkin or Dostoevsky. And they fell the prison hardships hately.
I ask You: be careful. Watch it. Don't forget me. There is the author of those lines in the swamps of the Northern capital city. That lines you read gladly and free.

by Artem Miachin

12 August 2016 (with author’s remarks)

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About myself

Hours pass, turning into days; months move to years. 
My friend, if I want to live immodestly, I should have done it yesterday. 
Now, turning her nose away from me, she wants to shoot me. 
There is on the first tree that comes across, drive a disheveled golden head into a noose.
 
Pull she up to make my heels dance 
Only she forgot that she would miss. 
Are you not sweet? Well, yes.. you won’t call me good, 
From the golden fire, only coals remained. 

But the wind carries my ashes away, 
Without falling into your wide-open eyes by coincidence of fate. 
The next time when you lie to a man, 
First decide who you are within.

by Artem Miachin

3 August 2016 (with author’s remarks)

---

I Won’t Forgive

They don't let me sleep with their children's cries under my windows. In the song, I hear her thin female voice: "Help me ...". On the screen, unsanitary conditions and her adult body. The dog people, cat people are around. I'm sorry. I need to be proud on the right and strong on the left side in my mind. My goal is the death of the enemies. I'm Russian. This is my idea. Everything I see here is mine. The enemy is closer than I want and so far away. I realize now - this is a matrix. Social matrix. I'm an engineer. I want money, and more than that, I want my dream. If I die, it's my own fault. But, I hope my enemy dies first. Billions of people and only hundreds of faces at all. I understand, this is a collective  behavioral matrix. I'll take it for myself now. I'll be afraid nothing. This can move our topic. 

5, 5, 35 and 70. These are the statistics of space-timing. And to the politics. But if it gets worse, then I'm done. My eyes are full of grief, despair and envy. My heart tightens, my hands are dropping. But my soul - it resists. I'll take it, I will steal this social matrix. This wonderful language of color, shadow and light, and extraordinary sounds and a deathly silent. I'm Russian and I'm better than owner of matrix. I'll put him on his knees. It will be easy. That was the plan at first. When I first woke up in tears. I see a vague dream: my childhood, toys and mirrors, when I first recognized myself in it. 

Suddenly, that clicks and the channel is switched. I have a headache. Russian children stand at the door with machine guns. I'm terrified and in a cold sweat... I'm waking up. Here's a dawn. Dog's bark. There is the rumble of the bus from which my windows are buzzing and the gray walls, transparent green windows. The sun casts a shadow on the bedspreads. I'm alone here with the pink sheet on the blue metal bed. Nobody came to kill me. What should I do? Gotta rewind the tape further. And everything works out for me. 

The heavy metal door. I'm going into his dungeon. He is tied to a chair. I shout: "When will you stop watching me and biting me? He is silent. His naked body is trembling. He touched the most intimate - the soul. I hear the inner voice, he says: "That's the sound of inevitability Mr. Anderson". My fists are clenched. He's coward! Like his friends. I was scared. But now "I'm fine". I'm switching the tape back again: there's a big city, - Downtown. The frame flickers. It looks like I'm in the frame. I'm coming closer and recognize myself. I need help. I'm scary again. I'm praying. The crowd is tearing me apart. I shout: "Help me!". I pause the dream or the matrix. 

There is me again. I'm surrounded by people. Here's howl. It is a social rebellion, controlled chaos. I manage them. Like a car at speed. He follows me and spoils my space. My social matrix. This is a big mistake to steal these songs, words, photos. I will steal this matrix. This super-intelligence is mine. I ignore all those who resist. I'll bring them down even harder until they will screaming. I believe in the Lord God Jesus Christ. He will save me. Whoever watches me is jealous and afraid of me. He knows that I'm better than him. He won't be able to save himself. I stole it. I already stole his matrix. Now it is mine. 

I'm back in the dungeon. I'm not afraid of instincts. I'm surrounded by people again. I have nothing to fear. Finally, I won't be alone, I'll delighted. He's condemned, but growls at me. And I do not like it. I'm nervous. And my fists are clenching. I rewind the tape again. I look at small myself. I play with toys. The shadow is following me. I break cubes. I look at myself in the mirror, crying. My own shadow terrifies me. The light hits my eyes. 

The ringing in the ears and bright white light. I'm ahead again. I know what I'm doing and why. I already convinced him. He doesn't resist. With the last drop of his blood... I'm packing in. I'm an astronaut. I'm flying to Mars. There in my dreams I see my own orange eyes. 

I'm remembering Daniel Keyes, which is gave to the girl. Ray Bradbury, Brodsky, Pushkin and Dostoevsky which I read myself. I'm so far away now. I'm alone in my capsule in its purple anti-radiation walls. Mother-of-pearl bed with a military-colored back. These are the black sheets and white curtains on plastic windows. Blue light so that my eyes don't hurt. Walking up and back on the capsule, I quote Saint Simon’s "Catechism of the Industrialists". I'm no longer alone. Nobody can get me.

by Artem Miachin

29 December 2022

---

He’s racist, she’s communist, here’s thief and there’s informal.

Lunch time of the day. It's cloudy and gloomy outside. The windows of the city streets are whitewashed due to haze. In a street stream of cars. The cars are humming merrily, not letting walkers collect with their thoughts. There was a traffic jam near the bank at the crossroads. The advertising signs are lined on the bank window. There are four police cars and a police truck at the entrance, which areccasting colored shadows on the nearby walls. The entrance to the steamy glass doors of the bank is blocked from the inside. 
In the building, dozens of people lie face down on the floor with their hands on the back of their heads. 

The tall man, wearing a hood and a black mask on his face, standing close to a bank clerk. The man holds an assault rifle in one hand and an old telephone in the another one. To the back of the telephone conversation, a policeman. Who is standing on the street surrounded by colleagues, leaning over phone. He's listening to the loud cry: 
-	I don't have a mom or a dad. I am a fiend, uncle. And I will not go to back! 

Loud words replace telephone beeps. There are eyes wide open in surprise on the face of a failed diplomat. The day before, at dinner with his family, he heard exactly the same offer from his daughter. 
This bank is robbed for the third time during two and a half years. Two of the robberies were committed by former policemen. 

It's dangerous to be disappointed in yourself. After that, can catch such beautiful color hallucinations, in which not everyone would like to have an acting. So, to be a very possible to get off the train, get off the plane ladder to nowhere, go out the window on a quiet night, roll up these sleeves to the elbow, that is red from blood. The dream of this bank robber is to get out of this country closer to freedom as soon as possible.
 
At the same time, while the robbery is going on, there are political announcements on TV, the essence of which reflects the sadness of all life. In a nutshell, described by the liberal slogan of the opposition: "The informal sits in jail, the thief leads in cabinet session". 

All convenient places that are in the state field have already been distributed among their people. Those who are dissatisfied either take to the city streets or rob, whatever can, - stalls, shops, bank accounts, or, as in this particular case, - trying to rob a bank. 
Meanwhile, on the street, near the ill-fated bank, various media gathered. Near the phone and the same dumbfounded police officer-diplomat, stands an elderly woman in beige and black attire. In this case, the robber is out of luck. His identity was quickly established and his elderly mother was brought to the building. On the pensioner's face are large glasses and a red badge, attached to her chest, which is about belonging to the party. 

Unfortunately, the laws are drawn up in such a way that not everyone can receive social benefits at the same time. And no one is responsible for this. Because there are liberal fascists in the parliament, and radical nationalists on the streets. Left radicals are robbing banks, liberal anarchists are looting old women. Conservatives are turning into religious fanatics, liberals move to social outcasts. This impoverished and life-threatening environment is the perfect place and time for foreign intervention by a neighbor that is dastardly barbaric. 

There are words in one of my favorite songs: "It'll eat you up like an aphid a flower, but it's still better to die same than to never love anyone".

by Artem Miachin

7 January 2023

---

Verse: “The saddest birthday”

Previously, I had a dream - it was a girl, perhaps exactly like Gigi Hadid.  Maybe just like her. I knew she, being her friend. 
We sit on the floor together in a room, hugging each other, turning off all the lights and extraneous noise. We just sit hugging. 
Sunlight streams in from the window, diluting the shadow of our room. As the cars roar past the windows. 
We sit together, looking into each other's eyes. Together, we can create miracles. Creating extraordinary things for ourself. 
God gave us a commandment: "Do not make yourself an idol". After so many years of waiting and being alone, I made the only one right decision. 
It lies in the realization of one's own significance, that now the idol is me. This is absolute free for me, as a Russian. 
And the idol should be a pure diamond, glowing in the sun and with a never-fading brilliance of gold. 
He also added: "Love your neighbor as yourself". I understood these words like this: "Do not drink and do not smoke".

Now I have another dream. It is extremely simple - the death of my enemies. They took away my first dream. 
The one was simple, purely personal. For this, I will take their lives. They did exactly the same thing with other people, taking away their dreams and their own lives. 
These fascists and their miserable dwarf - the "defender" of the people and homeland. With God's help, I will win this battle. After all, I'm much smarter, I'm not a vile thief, and I'm a hundred times angrier. 
When you come after me to kill me, I'll get ahead of you. I will not repent for a moment about this now, this didn’t happen to me in the past while I lived among the animals and this will not happen after. 
Five, maybe ten years will pass and your son will want to take revenge on me by coming to me. I will do exactly to him what I did with you. 
Years later, his mother and your wife will get drunk, forgetting about you. His sisters and your daughters will be used as affordable, accessible for everybody women. 
If you had another son, a younger one, he will understand me. Although, I know for sure - he will end his life by suicide. 
I saw your future and theirs ones too ahead of time. But I was just afraid of prison and long trials. I was embarrassed to admit to myself and to God that I was ready to burn down your house when you looked at me with the eyes of a miserable dwarf”.

by Artem Miachin

12 February 2023

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Verse: “I’m just the way I’m supposed to be”

I take a walk down the night street alone.  Where my own long shadow trembles ahead, falling on wet, slippery asphalt. I came up with this idea under the drops of drizzling fine rain, under the dim white light of lantern. 

The light comes on somewhere in the window of the suburban house. The light is yellow, burning in the pitch darkness of a long night street. For a moment, some thoughts of death and loneliness are appearing. I feel this stranger's energy flowing through my body, reaching my brain, shaking my bones, and turning into a thought. There is the thought flashes before my eyes in colors just for a moment. It seems to be drawn on the wet asphalt, being in the reflection of the gray puddle in front of me. There are the wet clothes glisten here and the shadow of my face distorted by the rain trembles. Although, I have a goal that justifies me. I remember that. 

I see myself as if from the outside, being in a four-dimensional space-time.  And I feel myself, like I'm on a street full of bright tabloid lights. Sometimes I even feel myself like a participant in an experiment, like in that terrible urban legend “Russian experiment with a sleep”, where you need to endure thirty days without sleep in order to become free. 

Yes, I'm almost free. I'm exactly who is needed for me. 

I open my red eyes, finding myself in the bed. I remember my childhood so often. For some reason, I often think about Mars, looking into the emptiness of my smartphone with my reflection in it. Where I am? Where is that roaring night express which shook my windows? 

Often, when they ask me two or even three questions at the same time, I can poke my finger into the sky to get to the point. They, - those who persecute me - gave me the insulting nickname "Celine Dion". I'm closing my eyes, hearing the distant rumble of a bus speeding through a night echoing in my head. An estrogen hits in my ears, hitting my ears, drop by drop. My body is trembling menacingly.  I remember again that they called me "Celine Dion". And it's not easy. My eyes are already dry with the tears, becoming dry as the sand Atakami. 

I see myself as a hostage in this life. A hostage can often be killed or mentally depressed, or have Stockholm Syndrome.  Simply put, a hostage can be a coward.  Perhaps this is the sixth sense. My inner voice suggesting a solution. But I have no purpose in life. This whole life is someone else's performance. This is not my life. 

God said: “Everything was created for man, but not everything is useful.  What is the use of a man if he gains the whole world and harms his own soul.  Or how to redeem it.  God also said: "You are gods."  So, if I am a god, then time has no power over me.  Where there is no time, there is no space to limit me. What is a space? The matter is a reflection of light that returns to my own eyes. It turns out that if I do not reflect light, I can pass through an object. It's about the meaning of life. “I don’t understand anything without discipline. I'm a swindler, not a socialist, ha ha!". 

As the great Russian classic Dostoevsky said: “The Russian god has already given up before the “cheap”.  Nowadays, after all, everyone has a not own mind. There is still, there is! You could be suffering, and suffering sincerely, from that innocence.  I love beauty. I am a nihilist, but I love beauty. Don't nihilists love beauty? They just don't like idols, well, but I love an idol!  You are my idol! You don't offend anyone and everyone hates you; you look equal to everyone, and everyone is afraid of you, that's good. No one will come up to you to pat you on the shoulder. You are a terrible aristocrat. An aristocrat, when he goes to democracy, is charming!  It means nothing to you to sacrifice your life and your own and someone else's. You are exactly who needs. I, I just need someone like you. I don't know anyone but you. You are the leader, you are the sun, and I am your worm... You are a handsome man, proud as a god, not looking for anything for himself, with a halo of sacrifice, "hiding".  Most importantly, the legend!  You will defeat them, look and win.  The new truth carries and "hides". And here we will let out two or three Solomon sentences. Maybe I'm in a delusional, maybe I'm in a delusional! But I came up with the first step. But one, only one person in Russia invented the first step and knows how to take it. This person is me. What are you looking at me? I need you, I need you, without you I am nothing. Without you, I'm a fly, an idea in a bottle, Columbus without America. Are you afraid? The reason why I grabbed hold of you is that you are not afraid of anything. It's unreasonable, isn't it? Why, I am still Columbus without America; Is Columbus without America reasonable?"

by Artem Miachin

8 April 2023

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by Artem Miachin

21 April 2023

Story: “This is motherfucking message, bitch”

Either they betray you, so it follows you, or the world is arranged in such a way that you do not fit into it.  How is it really?  - No one knows.  Only he knows. Hey, you!  Haughty. What about our old friendship? You are so beautiful, smart, attractive. And I'm lonely, unhappy. Your faithful servant. Once, leaning with your head to the wall, you quietly and sadly said, as if to yourself: "The lizard will never become a dragon."  I was sorry to hear that. You broke my heart while I was on the subway. I was poisoned by you. Your voice haunts me when I'm in gray walls. What you're talking about doesn't exist. Not now, not before. It's a lie. This is fiction. Your empty talk. And this is profanity. I have what I need. I walk in the footsteps of God, and you follow in the footsteps of his enemy. I'm red and you're blue. If I do something in your direction, then only for the benefit of myself. I hate you. You are empty space for me. You want to steal from me my precious - my soul. I don't need you. I don't have time for you. It takes away my wings. I'll need ones. I have only a quiet ringing in my ears, and you have gloomy voices. It will better if you will wash your wet eyes with clean water. You have a dirty mind. You are an intriguer. Inside mine, everything is on the shelves. My heart is pure. And you are one of them. You are a conspirator. Your red lips and shamelessly lowered eyes told me about it. I'm leaving. Forever. Goodbye. 

I am in Moscow. I'm on a wide street. There's a church ahead of me. Jehovah's Witnesses occupied the neighbored building. Entering the room, the first thing I see is kitchen knives scattered carelessly on the tables. This building would be more suitable for a warehouse than for a meeting room. For good reason I went here. Once I found trouble by believing in your bewitching eyes. It's exactly the same feeling. Now I will be careful when I meet you. Go away, leave me forever. It might be dangerous here. Somewhere, a terrorist from ISIS who joined a sect to hide in a crowd of fanatics. He was assisted by al-Qaeda. These are network marketing, leasing, trade, credit services and a training base.  Mafia – these petty geys, and the military are big faggots. In case of failure, they promise to destroy everyone.  And if they win, they rape women and children, and they kill you. They don't have their own identity. They are pathetic copies of the people I once met.  People, who were killed by your burning jealous eyes. I need to get rid of you all. We have to set you up. All the same, your prodigal path will lead you nowhere. It will the second or third circle of hell. If you rely on the immortal creation of Dante. 

This is not an Empire Strikes Back movie, and it doesn't feel like The Third Reich at all.  It's more like the movie "Highlander", where at the end there will be only one.  Or a story where a student kills a teacher.  This is the story of a white man, about whom it is impossible to say in the affirmative who he is and what he did yesterday and today, and tomorrow.  Having passed this gloomy building, I go out into the backyard. Daylight hits  my eyes. Long stories of a white man, will be remembered only at night, alone, when I imagine your eyes hot from the heat.  Further along the street only fooling around, muddy children. And there is a black man. I raise my eyes to the yellow sun to forget about the carelessly scattered kitchen knives. What the hell?! And walk past them. Forget about them. I was accidentally brought to this building.  It's better to go nowhere. 

I start laughing hysterically, remembering your eyes again.  They are terribly dark. There were the FBI? Perverts? Is it the ultras and the mafia?  The smell of money, women's perfume, and fear. Gateway. Fear seized me. Pungent odor of urine. It turns me inside out from you.  My muscles are tight. Adrenaline and endorphins in my blood. I'm hallucinating and my knees are shaking. Oh God!  Here terrorist number 2 is. He's Putin. The yellow walls of his palaces, its brown bars. I remembered prison. It looks like the windows of a madhouse. This is the labyrinth of the minotaur or the dwelling of the monster. And this is my fear. He runs along the walls of this building, falling on wet and dirty asphalt. My shadow is dropping. It looks like a heart attack or brain stroke in the same time. I'll have to run. Plus this mixture of hormones and pheromones in my blood. This is much worse - this is to insomnia. I need to leave you to forget you. Drop everything to hide. Either I part with unnecessary people, or I continue to play the sociopath.  The choice is only one of these two.  Unfortunately you, my god, I still refer to you sometimes. You play this game better than me. That's why I can't forget your lonely and haughty eyes. 

Then I'll fly on the first flight to you from Thailand to catch your hand. I like the smell of fresh bread more than the smell of urine in a dark alley where I wandered by chance.  It's too late to feel unwanted in the soul. It's dark ahead, but there's no time to turn back.  And what about the night, I like the fire. I tried to get rid of it once to change it to the love of the cold wind and the smell of the sea. I am not a hedonist.  After all, for some reason they put me in dungeons. Where blue walls and bars lit with yellow light crushed me. This is clearly not done by accident.  It's like the blood and sand I've seen before. It's all done to light up my eyes to make them meaner.  To make me meaner. I am terrified. I forgot your gaze.  This is similar to the feeling that I was going to feel, but for some reason I hesitated on purpose. I'm afraid of the cops and not in vain. To my fear, they all got me. They seem to have the same gazes. Now, going out into the street, into the white light, seeing luminous tabloids and passing cars... From all this to purple, yellow, gray colors, I become phsyco.  My tongue is tangled up on these pills. Although, until recently, I condemned you for exactly the same thing. 

I'm outside the synagogue in Ankara, where something is clearly happening. I came here.  Raging crowd ahead. This is a clear choice. Politics again. It is endless - never ends and starts nowhere. It stirs up hatred.  Again, no choice. A stubborn popular homosexual and his arrogant rich lesbian. Or a populist and a victim of violence. Need to go back. I turn the ignition key from VAZ2107. Next to me sits a harassment and recidivist, a victim of violence or harassment. There are an AK-47, a few lemons and a fly grenade launcher in the trunk.  Arrow ahead. After all, only the grave will fix the hunchback.  We are together. We are anarchists and right wing. It seems that next to me are some sociopaths. If you miss, then the faithful cop of the Soviet Union will ask you, if you answer him incorrectly, then you did it. You will convicted. 

I seem to be in a spiritual twilight. I approach the glass in my room, thinking that everything is gone. In the morning the light hits my tired eyes. Again, I realize that nothing has even started yet.  Darkness enveloped the room and pulled me in. I smell your fear, although you are far from me. It's disgusting. This is not the hotel where I slept. Not room six hundred and sixty-six, where it was warm and pleasant.  his is number eight hundred and eighty-eight, where everything, absolutely everything, is gone. Gone. If this is a score, then I'm up there, under the dome, near the big clock. I'm looking for you from the shadows to find you. What will I do with you?  Love or kill? I don't need proof for this. The look on your face is my excuse when you meet my gaze. But you're not here.  Emptiness outside and dirt inside. We don't recognize people like you. So let's keep hunting. No king but God's anointed. No to a fat, lazy butt of the priest. He is too arrogant and tired of not watching anyone. 

There is an idea, albeit an arrogant one, I will take them all for bait. Adrenaline returns to my blood. Let's take them on treason, to put it simply. They saw nothing but chickens. I attach cartridges to the grenade and throw them into the darkness. This is the shooting of wild animals.  Cannibal hunting. And the more dangerous the animal, the more interesting the hunt. I go out into the gusty wind, I understand that it's too late to change. Some metal objects in the night, on the wind, sing almost the same way as small birds sing during the day. My brothers and I and the dog will figure you out. Let's set up a hunt. She is cold and calculating, but she serves me faithfully. All this happens because when you came to my restaurant and ordered chicken, you hoped that I would bring you a fattened calf. You are crazy! You are a terrorist. Although, it is not the place and time to explain everything. Times change and people change too, but feelings and sensations remain the same. Everything I need I already have. In drops of fine rain, I hear her wondrous voice whispering to me: "The lizard will never become a dragon."  It hurts to hear from you. This is a feeling of excitement. I see fear and first, I'll bet on red.  But it's like euphoria, remembering her words when the crowd bets on black. It looks like a cry: "Crucify him!".  But no... It's completely no... it's different.

by Artem Miachin

27 May 2023