Водоворот безумный в рот, Я наливал тебе компот, И двадцать пять коробок лета Я паковал себе в комод. Желтело, осень поступала, А тело согревал портвейн, Пришла ты в черном и сказала: «А ну, красавчик, ахуей».
Yaroslav Kulikovsky. Vienne, 2023 (c). Part of the cycle: Poems on City Flesh and Power.
This poem is like port wine under the skin: warm, chaotic, defiantly alive. It doesn’t pretend to be refined — and that’s exactly its power. Feeling, lust, sentimentality, and rebellion all fit in the same dresser drawer. Being yourself sometimes means not holding back an “ah-****-yeah” when everything really is that good.