Артем Тюльников
Сложные стихи на английском
So that my own tectonic plate – the one that isn’t tabulate but imperturbable and great – would move because of crazy rate, just like a river in full spate ready to crash any floodgate or just like waves truly wild and undulate as though they had one over the eight, of your convection to disclose my fate, as fragile as a piece of slate.
I sterilize macabre dyes, those that you never verbalize, groping around to catch your disguise which my own eyes can’t recognize. They vandalize my current ties I cannot briefly cauterize; if time is similar to miles, then to revitalize takes years as the crow flies.
It is unwise to scrutinize when you could blindly patronize. Just to reveal then ostracize the crippled gist that’s on the rise, – an omen of your own demise, a failure to memorialize but why do you antagonize to see how the land lies? Some things I cannot euthanize, I amble on anticlockwise. This is my point, I surmise, I should of cut it down to size.
A blast of lust that could coerce us to combust leaves us eventually nonplussed, it rusts so fast under that murky crust of ground dust meshed with disgust that gradually becomes steadfast.
It’s not mild wind that craves a gust to blow away the overcast, never have I been so aghast, – I’m molested and harassed and clenched by maws of your holdfast – one is abhorrence, another is mistrust, I doubt I’ll ever find contrast.
I cannot spread my sail that seems so vast, it’s been so long it’s almost grassed, and furthermore, the hoist is cussed, the navigation is concussed, my inner voice whispers: “avast…unless you want to bite the dust” as a result I’m downcast
That makeshift travesty is bust, some time ago it was robust; should not have thought the thing would last, – I have become an outcast.
Disfigured by the past, – all tribulations that have passed I must have lost my mast under that thick layer of must that I myself amassed.
INFA(N)TUATION
Affection’s something that we couldn’t even feign.
For us, it was as real as to “set on fire hurricane.”
As easy as to swim with your leg shackled to an iron ball and chain.
We neither acted nor did we abstain,
Blew hot and cold just like butane.
It’s either this or that, two forms together won’t obtain.
They will conduct against themselves a military campaign.
The volatility was not that simple to sustain.
Landslides of yours caused so much pain.
Day after day – the same low-pitched refrain.
Oh, gravity, your forces one cannot detain.
The party crashed, your whims are guests I failed to entertain.
Their sharpened talons flaying me still in my head remain.
I slid into the pit of wretchedness as far as I could ascertain.
Then came abrasion that was all in vain,
And pointed all the blunt I wanted to retain.
Facelift’s not what I wanted to attain.
My psyche’s skewed and steep and inhospitable terrain.
You made a lion with no mane.
I’m but a sow that has just found her own piglets overlain.
A life boat that has no coxswain,
A glacier, tarnished by moraine.
My roar is loud and so vain,
As though I’m water that engulfs floodplain.
I was expelled from my domain
Thanks to rebellious coup de main.
They banished me, their former thane,
Ambiguous and in some sense immane.
On their lips is bitterness of the romaine.
Why do they ward themselves with purslane?
My pelt cannot resist the stain,
As though it were a bloating blain.
The one that does not let me gain
A key to match the lock that holds a chain
That chokes me down to restrain
As if it is as toxic as henbane,
Manifestation of a pure bane.
I’m repellent that attracts migraine.
If we were fleas then I would be fleabane.
If you appeal to cattle then I’ll appear as murrain.
It is that easy to explain.
Allegedly my esoteric reign
Is hard to take without disdain
In all those realms that form a plain
Where drought has never felt my rain.
And at an altitude of plane
Being a real tramontane, -
A bird that’ll never find its skein
Or in the caverns deep where I’ve once lain
Watched them deplete my ore vein
Striving for former might and main
I saw the land of withered grain,
I came across a peneplain.
It smashed my stand by giving me a cane -
To walk I had to be a whooping crane.
I thought it was to maintain
The knowledge that was not arcane.
But things they’ve built I call insane.
My railway’s weak to hold their train.
Their minor freight can bend my crane.
That human waste does not accept my main.
My strength is fizzing like champagne.
Your grubs are on my sugarcane.
Even direction of my wind is inhumane,
It can’t be shown by your vane.
Things are tendentious through my windowpane,
Way more surreal than mundane.
As I could scent the odorless methane.
And where’s no way I might see twain.
Detour a mountain and I’ll burst it open treading submontane.
I’m all alone, I struggle not to appertain
To any fraction as they’re all inane.
A crime for which myself I can’t arraign.
If I keep up I won’t be harnessed to your wain.
Which means that I’ll be separated by your ominous membrane.
