The car becomes a cloud in the ravine next to the rutted lane called Dead Ant Street where a dozen of discombobulated septuagenarian hippies used to reside. They kept headless, formless, quadruped animals, each one on a separate ledge cut in the slope, each one possessing long, awkwardly gorgeous hair. The closer you came to the beasts, the more you lost your composure, but they remained calm until you began to count the hairs. It was too silent for a clock face to be seen.

before noon

when apollo discovered two extra muses wearing blooming digits on the slopes of a barking mountain fallen leaves avoided the palms of the insane every moment before noon


In the city I have never visited but where I should have spent my childhood women eat their offspring listening to sad fiddle music. The radios are always on, streets empty, a few yellow leaves float down the gutters after the rain. It is too clean everywhere for insects and rodents. A girl is trying to hide dancing behind a gas station like an inept graffiti.


The day picket fences breathed erratically and gas fireplaces reflected the nature of broken oceans, I was born in a room achingly looking for a corner. Youngsters unknown to the school staff ran through the walls, the fingers broken like oceans. Seafarers said nothing but the air was too cheap to bother selling it so it was free, and the sunlight described it anew every moment. The last time my parents saw a huge mammal it was a monument to a famous firefighter. There were digits all over its body, but they didn’t constitute a number.


What it was in 1982: shining rails, Martian freight trains delivering hateful silence to the squares around, shining rails, a couple of junkies sitting on them, the schmucks just like me I enjoyed talking to, the hollow

Moscow sun, hovels, dust, hovels galore and slogans above the buildings, long live the Communist Party you fucking shitheads, a couple of bottles of vodka in our pockets immune to lint, cracks in the pavement, potholes.

We did talk like gods avoiding jejune allegories. We were gods in fact that day, and I loved the absence of Militsiya. I loved the lack of everything in their apartment. No sleep, no shadows, translucent curtains, but plenty of ashtrays, weak slanted sunrays and cold tap water.

no testament

Time exists only for the oppressed. Whenever we enter paradise, it disappears. I, John the Divine, have witnessed this phenomenon so many, haha, times that I feel almost disgusted talking of it. I have been killed by so many a man, given birth by so many a woman and remember all of them in so many a detail that it has all become a monstrous tattered rug which only the fools could use as a means of transportation; the wise would immediately leave it to a beggar with the shreds of memory attached to it, because the left armpit of Pontius Pilate is still hovering high above, invisible to the naked eye.

I walk an endless road that leads nowhere, I pick spoilt mangoes covered with dust and eat them, I drink from stale ponds deer don’t dare to approach. I can’t write but parrots discuss the typos I haven’t made in the deep of the woods, the leviathan sings the songs I have never composed but no one listens to it down there in the dark. The only one who you might think could, that guy so much bothered by inept prayers, the Wandering Jew who impeccably duped the human race by a fake sacrifice, that treacherous trannie, according to some slim anecdotal evidence, doesn’t give a shit about anything else but punk rock radio stations, whenever in the universe you are lucky to notice him, be it in Moscow, Lima, a Bushman village or the outskirts of a town on the twenty eighth planet circling Betelgeuse.

The sky has been falling on him so many, haha, times under the weight of all those unheard prayers, but he is tuning and tuning in, in love with each and every symptom of anarchy he can get his ears on.

I have his autograph on a crumpled pack of Camels, by the way.


Foreign comedians gather mushrooms, walking on the walls of the castles protected by UNESCO, gibbering, making obscene gestures. Mousetraps snap time and again, but they don’t hear; death never comes in advance, you know, however much you try. They think an ouroboros is a rare bird with an especially nasty voice.

air filter mimicry

The existence of eyes in the sky is highly doubted by my sneakers. I don’t wear them in front of cats and dogs, but you won’t say for sure how many gallons of water you can safely place between two stars, especially when they are not too bright. Sore throats of New Mexico implore you to forget your SSN, to lose yourself in the prairie dog labyrinths and coyote intestines for aeons. You don’t listen to them, of course.

feathered creatures

Blackbirds are egg-laying, feathered creatures. In a cafe if it is a cafe a sparrow isn’t a sparrow until you don’t see a sparrow. You try to cross a sparrow with a crow, you win. You try to show them your palms, you lose. Water doesn’t want to be hot. But listen, in a cafe Jeremy Pann was eating something called Noah’s Dove. He had paid for it with huge, A4-sized bills. Jack Storey was picking ants crawling over the brass stem of the table lamp, tearing them and eating bit by bit. The ants were Eastern European, I was told. A good vacation is a typo and nothing more, dude, someone said. Meanwhile I knew I killed someone and it wasn’t worth it, even though the extraterrestrials didn’t seem to find out.

out to lunch

I told them I didn’t practice the piano. I felt a little ashamed because I played like a fowl with its feet despite the fact that I had just graduated from a music school. The woman asked me what I was doing then. Apparently she couldn’t believe someone might have seriously disregarded such an artistic endeavor. She went on saying that they desperately needed a piano player, that it was such a beautiful, such a noble, marvellous way of making money, etc. She was very excited, and I terribly disappointed her answering that I was doodling on scraps of paper time and again, nothing more. There was a piece of paper filled with my doodles on the table. She saw it, but they thought that my problem was alcohol, because they saw the glass as well. I said I drank just a glass in a week, I don’t know why. It wasn’t true, and they didn’t believe me. Then the guy began to talk about angling on Saturn and how sly all the Saturnians were. No wonder, he said, they had duped all the other planets with their leaden diet. I replied that we had to, one way or another, wipe out every worm, every fly, every possible and impossible kind of bait from the face of Saturn. (It was the wrong thing to say, I admit.) The automatic doors opened at that moment and I was ready to exit with my cat, but there was also a dog in the room that was eager to get outside. I caught hold of its left hind leg and passed it over to the guy.


Once upon a time teapots couldn’t face elephantine splendor of dragonflies. Cannibals were afraid of being lost in the sky and the government invented gravity. People
began to throw oranges and pineapples into the air, but they couldn’t fly away. It didn’t seem good. It wasn’t good at all. People went postal. Knives and songs penetrated them harmlessly and disappeared.


It is mandatory to have a tattoo here. Now, you see, most people don’t care about anything. They don’t give a shit about their bodies, minds and souls, but for some reason they don’t want to become a travesty of a picture book anyway. They are doomed. Do they imagine their skin is a tabula rasa? Who knows. They look at the samples and hate them all: reptiles, birds, felines, Japanese calligraphy, butterflies, spiders, swastikas, hexagrams, naked women, naked men, eggs, unicorns, you name it. Do you have anything else, they ask. And they can’t think up their own images either. Their necks are too long for that.


Two women were taking pictures of butterflies feasting on horse poop. One was 147, the other 164; the poop was a couple of days old at best. Venus often used to dream about this great nation which would have eaten all its deities alive. You could hear the rustle of snakes, caterpillars and burnt trees from Rabbit Mountain. You could see a cyclist chasing a pregnant cow down below.