Altar regrets; please don’t alter my texts –
or delete my last request; as lust requests
you do what feels good, but it all becomes
tomorrow’s bad mistake, dressed out in
yesterday’s breath.

At the front of my books – my body language
in bold font is what I’ll flaunt; though at times,
I’m not so bold at being myself...
Physical or digital – spiritual or literal –
loaning some faith on empty days,
loading some company when I feel
I’m moving through life at my lonesome,
feeling loathsome.

But take your time; write your own books if you
want to – just don’t forget the lessons you’ve read.
Despite being blue-ticked in person, my presence
and influence still get left on read...
I can’t claim ownership of everything; crying for
it all, till my eyes are painted red.

As each good word you’ve received is a divine gift –
to defy the rifts; to train and define your divine gifts,
learn to prune the sickness from your vine so new
creation can live... value the chance to forgive —
make every reason solid, for choosing to live.

Take me as a definition: a surface-level heart that drowns in
deep thought, quietly pondering love, quietly grieving loss.
Loss not just for someone; a loss for most words. Because
when you’ve been dealing with a lot, you stop explaining
and start enduring.

Take me, for example: yesterday I had a conversation with
myself, but it sounded like I was addressing the ugly stuff,
the versions of me I don’t post about. Getting a little older,
I now feel the subtraction of duration settling in my bones.
It’s not pain exactly. It’s more like time knocking without
waiting for permission.

Multiply that by multiple misfires, all the times I believed,
in my head, that I’d finally found the one. Now, I’m left
divided. Not between people, but between the stories I told
myself; the truths I keep avoiding. Insanely rich with poor
results — "wait, that doesn’t add up." As that’s the math of
memory: it never balances the way love promises it will.

Still I need a leg up, not just to raise the hopes of this tired
heart, but just to step out of my despairs. Because lately,
I’ve been third-wheeling the very idea of love; a tagalong
to a party I used to host. And when it comes to falling for
someone with a previously broken heart, you learn quick:
it doesn’t come with a spare.

I’ve realized love either helps you make strong memories
or leaves you with the memory of a sus stain. You can’t
always tell which until it’s already on you, and by then
you’re already trying to scrub out that which you hoped
to sustain.

The Arithmetic of Almost-Love.

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 смотри на меня и не лыбь свой смайл,
В голове твоей Опа-поцман-стайл;
Я тебе скажу: «Крошка, баю-бай,
В Ла-ла-ленд давай, уебай».
Грациозна как рысь — да особый кайф,
Мне чувак рассказал про твой фристайл,
Но, увы, ты не то, и не напирай,
Ты на жопу присядь, почитай.

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

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

Not every people are your people —
but in that same breath, everybody needs you.
Going round the city, and round the clock,
where times are always hard, like the past
we keep wearing; all the ones we hang up.
As someone called me, and I answered
quickly, frequently, honestly; just to hang up.

Funny how that’s what we do with people too.

Fingers of strangers scrubbing their own
dishes, while dishing out cold remarks —
serving my character as tonight’s leftover dinner.
And still, I stay on their minds without an address,
resting in dreams without a mattress; in the scripts
they write, I’m some recurring actor or actress —
But I don’t have the stamina to be running through
someone else’s head for free; dressing for their occasion
while my self-worth turns into something old fashioned.

And the idea of pushing a lawnmower over grass
that’s not mine, just to keep the image they clipped
of me, cut and well-trimmed - cuts me short of worth.

I’m always cut short for time, by that very blade.
Could it be a blade of grass or time itself?
Either way, it leaves another scent in the air —
the smell of success I’m still chasing.

Not every people are your people —
there are some paths, you won’t walk.
And some eyes, you won’t meet.
And some connections? You just hang up.

All the stars are falling down.
Make a wish —
maybe we’ll fall in love
before they hit the ground.
And if it fails, I guess we’re
just crashing down.

                                     To shot my shot, and try to be
                                     your shooting star —
                                     aimed so high,
                                     but I was falling too fast
                                     at the sight of your brown eyes,
                                     soft as cosmic dust.

I’m the dusk, you’re the sun —
and if we make love
to make a son,
will that light save us,
or are we still just crashing down?

                            Until then - hold me in the silence
                            between the boom and the burn —
                            where gravity forgets us,
                            and stars don’t return.

And if we’re meant to fall,
then let it be together —
two sparks in the dark,
pretending we’re forever.

                          Even if we burn out
                          before the dawn,
                          at least we lit the sky while
                          we were on.

tricked myself
into believing
i was okay.

took another path,
veered off course—

now my
neuropathways
are backfiring.

forcing myself
to keep my head high,

so i don’t slip
into the same
chaotic state

that’s way
too familiar.

it’s all
so tiring.

i’m sick
of it.

tired of
feeling comatose,
unalive,

just drifting.
with tired
eyes.

i’m ready
for what’s next.

i need something
with weight—
with substance.
with meaning.

i’m done
keeping my
head down.

i’m done
drowning.

it’s my time.

this isn’t
my ending.

this is the
beginning

of an era
they thought
was lost.

i’m reclaiming
what’s mine—

i’m ready
for

what’s next.

because nothing
will hold me down

anymore.

you’ve suffered
for so long

and now
you want to give up

because all
you’ve ever wanted
was to be
something
to someone —

to belong
in this world

your knees buckle
and hit the ground

you try to cry
but nothing comes out

you ask yourself:
am i emotionless?
am i
down
for the count?

touching the surface
you look
for ways
to escape
this spiral

is this
the final
temperamental break?

you scream
shaking your fist
at the sky

you search
for hope —
but you see it
nowhere
at all

maybe one day
you’ll wake up

and realize
hope
was always
around

move
forward,
rebound.

this is your
time —

your time to
not let your
emotions
drown.