Жарил в ухо, горло, нос,
Сразу видно кто есть Ху,
А вы, зая, пылесос,
Принимайте юху-ху.
Рукоплещу вам пальцАми,
Обезумел, разогнал,
Эй, куда же ты с концами,
Разряжаешь арсенал?

Yaroslav Kulikovsky. Paris, 2024 (c).
Part of the cycle: Poems on City Flesh and Power.

👉 tiktok.com/@kulikovskyonthepunchline
👉 youtube.com/@KulikovskyOnThePunchline/shorts

Не дрочил я уже две недели,
Но, зато хорошенько наспал,
Разбудил свою музу Элю
И опять не пошел в спортзал.
Но весна начнётся в апреле,
Впереди серо-грязный март.
Постираю за ней постель я —
И пойду проснусь в банкомат.

Yaroslav Kulikovsky. Paris, 2021 (c).
Part of the cycle: Poems on City Flesh and Power.

👉 tiktok.com/@kulikovskyonthepunchline
👉 youtube.com/@KulikovskyOnThePunchline/shorts

I am a silhouette that’s almost human —
a wishful thought, a half-formed tune.
A path that doesn't circle back,
no map, no rewind, no past to track.
I’m a gunfighter — my words are the bullets,
time the outlaw I’ve hunted in dullness and pullets.
As I’ve killed it slow in many hours lost,
paid my thrills in tears, but never knew their full cost.

I’ve held a love like a flood — wild, rushing, raw,
then dried out in its drought, begging heaven for more.
I chase new highs like I’m being chased —
while fear cracks at my heels, but I still keep pace.
I smile like bravery wrapped in so much doubt,
as each piece of laughter is a whisper trying to shout.
And see that my eyes have carried their tearful ache,
and never the cherry on top of cheerful cake.

But still —
I’ve done the hard things though trembling inside,
lived among broken people; the ones who’ve also cried.
And I may not be whole so often, but I’ve learned to feel,
in every fractured moment — to be something real.

Life has its many high notes –
a song of misery that works on itself,
It’s its own company, inviting anyone
to the party – misery always invites company

But the song of a friend’s love
isn’t so loud – it’s soft, reassuring,
something to count on, to help you recall
your worth – even if all you need is their company.

Look to the sky — each cloud is forged alone,
Yet from afar, they wear the same white throne.
  They drift like thoughts, alike yet set apart,
  A testament to nature’s restless art.

Likes and unlikes — such is the nature’s lore,
Be the seed that breaks its shell and grows once more.
  Stand firm and nurture all you hold inside,
  Your voice, your shadow, your unpolished pride.

Never let fear hush the thunder in your chest —
Speak storms of truth, though silence might seem best.
  Tongues will wag like branches in the wind,
  But roots run deeper when they don’t pretend.

Most trade their colors for another’s hue,
They wear borrowed skins to seem brand new.
  Yet stand apart — like a lone tree crowned in flame,
  Unafraid to bear your honest name.

You need not twist your soul to be untrue —
Be your own sky, be your sun and morning dew.
  For it’s enough — this flawed and fearless star —
  To live unmasked, to be just who you are.

Have you ever wondered
About the youth of your parents
How do they look like
How have they been brought up
How did they meet
How did they fall in love?
How did they make us?

I had these questions with me since i grow up
Probably because my parents aren't that open up
Probably because they were so busy raising us up
Probably because its an Asian thing i assumed privacy as such.
So somehow, to me, parents’ life before us were so blurry and doesn't seem to ever existed
Not until the day i had my mom on the back of the scooter
As we rode to the temple where we store the leftover of our beloved dad

She told me about their past
A young guy in his teenager days
Lay eyes on her as they met on a communal working day
He asked for her hand before summoned military service
Not directly to her but through a relative
She forgot him as soon as she left for college
Busy chasing her love life, never heard from him in thousand days, he was too far away.

When the war over, he returned home, she was working in a distant village
He refused my grandpa’s arrangement, went on a journey to seek
For his first and only girl he ever fallen in love with
He found mom after her 5 or 6 failure romances.
They started distant relationship for a while before getting married.
She continued working in the faraway village and he returned to military service
To serve in another “nonsense war” (this is my words)

And honestly i still cant imagine how did they make us
‘Cause i never seen them holding hands, showing affection in front of us
But its real - they do fall in love
They do have their heyday before us

And even though i never seen them talking about love
I now realized its just a different way of showing how they love
By fighting; yet, taking care of each other for better or worse
By sometimes hurting each other...
But at the end of the day, one can change other’s diaper when he can no longer move

I cant tell if he was the love of her life when she decided to tight the knot.
But looking at her shivering shoulder, her teary eyes now every time we talk
About our beloved and only man
and whatever reminded us of him
I can think of nothing to explain but love

Have you ever wondered
How did our parents live before having us?
And how would you tell your future children
About your youth...

A blank verse worked,
A page with empty lines,
Not a word was written,
Precocious or sublime.

     I think I can go deeper,
     No title, lines or words,
     Just a blank white paper
     To ponder and observe.
     Smaller than a quark,
     Just think and it will work.
     Even greater than the singularity
     That banged our universe.
     Something was there,
     But nothing's here.
     This is a nothing verse.

It teaches nothing's worse
Than worthless words
That have no meaning,
No emotion, zero girth.

But you can make an ode of it,
A sonnet, or Rondeau,
Choose to please your fancy,
But please don't choose Haiku.

There's a private, invisible flock of comedians chanting soapbox knock-knocks in my parking lot
            Noisy, clang, boom thingy aloft and clipping the air around the slimy snow
And why does ajax keep butting its nose into everything I’ve got?
They’re all just boom-lost facades in a canonical, sly-faced rant.
So slanted, frankly, and poised toward a milder pace that the clang clipped the frosty branches beneath a drunken frat-house party.

Ah, the dandy-clang : native to the sandy graves and morose olive branches.
            But only on the night of the dandy-clang, candy dances
for the branches are not partial to missed solid caches
            of want and woe
            of tongue and toe
and seldom shaken beneath the overbearing heat of a white-faced predator
for times it was that here and now, because
the wind had bitten harder
What am I saying?
That if the dandy-clang came. And if it produced the branches of the dancing eve fame...
with but not together. The clouds up in the ether
that lake and earth should wither