1. |
Remember / Помнишь
05:29
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Remember
(Translated by Kevin M. F. Platt)
We made many journeys
Around the apartment that day and other days;
Moved on foot along the windows
Rushed down the hall with our tasks
Broke into the bathroom and collided
With something in the entryway, knocking
From the rack an avalanche of coats and jackets,
Orphaned there, waiting for something greater.
I remember one passage from our son’s bedroom
Into our own, with rain pouring outside the windows
And even a lightning strike at one point,
But nothing could deter us, intrepid,
Entrepreneurial, capable,
Stepping decisively
The other way.
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2. |
Truths / Истины
02:10
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Truths
(Translated by Kevin M. F. Platt)
I want to tell you simple truths,
Reveal important things to you.
Always open doors, step into elevators,
Go upstairs, move down corridors.
Always get into cars, start the engine,
And if it’s winter, wait until it warms up.
Always spend money, but sparingly,
And only once in a while spend everything you’ve got.
In summer it will be summer; in fall it will be fall,
Don’t get flustered; don’t do anything that disgusts you.
Girls will become young women, and then you’ll notice
Them crossing the street holding little kids’ hands.
Men will somberly weigh the options
But then act according to circumstances, often making mistakes.
Governments are made to fall;
Ships—to glide beneath bridges.
All the same, the lights on the other side of the river
Will never—imagine that—never go out.
Still, if they do, pack your bag—
Only the essentials—and leave the city immediately.
When you arrive in a new place, look around, lean against a tree;
You can light up—if you smoke—stand around, think.
You see, here too they drink tea in the evening, coffee in the morning.
Blame the mayor and wait for things to get better.
And if there is a river and you see lights on the other side,
That’s something to cling to.
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3. |
Shop / Магазин
02:24
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Shop
(Translated by Kevin M. F. Platt)
I went into a strange store;
Bought strange things,
The salesgirl looked me over
Kinda strangely.
I came home, but it was as if
It wasn’t mine. And I came to, but as if
It wasn’t me. A strange store
That was, and it was strange that
I went in at all. Like,
I didn’t mean to—I was going home,
The sun was glaring in my eyes.
But when I came out: nightfall, streetlights.
And all around some kind of strange
Unknown country. With other
Cities inside it.
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4. |
Old World / Старый мир
04:39
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Old World
(Translated by Kevin M. F. Platt)
I saw the old world’s birth,
Whole streets of delapidated houses
Were erected, with rusty rain
Downspouts, broken off a couple of meters
From the ground, doorframes ripped out in entryways
And other structures of neglect. Smokestained Opels
And Volkswagons with dents in their hoods and
Splotches of rust were driven into the country in caravan
After caravan. And old folk came in droves from all over the
World, from everywhere they brought these unwanted
Old timers, joyfully coughing into their knit
Gloves at the local tram stops.
And life iced over. The whole world hit the brakes, water
Flowed more slowly from faucets, the police
Chased thieves more slowly, who went for their guns slower
And pulled triggers that fell apart like rot,
As they released one last fiery flower of a shot.
A bullet would fly forward for at least a century, finally freezing
In the air, like a tablet dropped into thick, transparent syrup.
Or like a yellow vitamin pellet, past its expiration date,
That rolls behind the cabinet and lodges in dust, wrappers and nostalgia.
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5. |
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The Doll Incident
(Translated by Kevin M. F. Platt)
I see 25,000 defective Chinese dolls
Scattering, like energized peas, from several
Trains they seized at the border. They
Occupy cafes, bazaars, and supermarkets. And then
They set up field kitchens on the streets and start
Distributing broth made out of genetically modified soya
and plastic packets. The country’s troops are in disarray.
The dolls can’t be injured: when torn into pieces,
A single enemy is immediately transformed into several
Whole and unharmed dolls, regenerating their plastic flesh
In just seconds. When hit by a bullet, the dolls are tossed back a couple of meters
Only to rise again. Their bodies contain none of the organs
That are found in living beings. NATO rapid response troops
Take up position at the country’s borders, isolating
This now strange, infected territory. NATO special forces seize
A pair of dolls and hustle them by air to a secret laboratory
Near Munich, where after a series of rushed experiments
It is ascertained: the dolls are impervious to radiation; they can be damaged
Only by temperatures that reach 150-200 degrees Celsius. But such
Hellish heat would scorch every living thing around. Meanwhile,
In occupied territory, the dolls impose a harsh regime: all channels
Broadcast only black-and-white puppet-animation from the 60s
And the same in cinemas, theaters, clubs, and other public
Spaces. The cartoons are played without sound, with
Stylized Chinese subtitles projected in mirror image. The dolls have closed
All forges and furnaces, public baths, and any establishment
With elevated heat. Famine sets in: the prices for food products
Sold out of secret back rooms climb astronomically; November cold fronts
And downpours make life unbearable. But all roads are blocked
By cruel, undersized patrols. They are impervious
To frost; their little black button-eyes express nothing
But indifferent contempt. The nation is on the brink of extinction. The National
Salvation Committee, hiding out in the northern swamps, issues orders,
Proclamations, and appeals to NATO allies and to the international
Community. But the situation is completely unpredictable, and world
Leaders adopt a strategy of wait-and-see. Puppet-animation and Chinese subtitles,
Puppet-animation and Chinese subtitles. And patrols on all
Minimally passable roads. What can you do in a situation like this,
You fan of Walt Disney and the poorly behaved wolf in striped pants from your Soviet
Childhood? How can you prove your worth as a man and protector? Your brain works
Feverishly, but produces not a single workable idea. You paint blue
Rabbits and little yellow foxes, green fir trees, violet clouds on the stucco
And concrete of residential neighborhoods; you scatter color printouts
Of the Pink Panther. But then, one day, you see
A chain of people exiting a high-rise, pulling wood stoves
Mounted on ordinary garden wheelbarrows. And into those stoves
They mercilessly stuff the dolls. Word of the new weapon spreads like wildfire;
Home appliance stores and fireplace dealers are cleared out immediately.
Loads of stoves are dropped by NATO jet and helicopter. Long lines of people spring up
To comb through their own neighborhoods and beyond — to a triumphant conclusion.
Between every couple of people is a wheelbarrow with a mobile stove.
The people’s faces are covered with soot from plastic and radiant with joy.
By Christmas, it is mostly over. NATO troops and what’s left of the national army
Retake the country and imprison the last few hundred crazed defective dolls.
The Chinese leadership insists it had nothing to do with the regrettable incident.
Nevertheless, imports of plastic products are drastically reduced. Wool and rag dolls
Come back into fashion. Christmas is celebrated. “What did you learn from this incident?” ask
BBC and Al-Jazeera correspondents. “It’s taught us to share the warmth
And keep the fire burning,” the people answer. All local racial and ethnic
Conflicts are forgotten, and a new era of handicrafts and ecological thinking dawns.
The country’s trains remain equipped with a system of controlled
Combustion, making them unpopular among the people, and so they rush along,
Empty, with dully illuminated windows.
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6. |
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First Photo of a Black Hole
(Translated by Kevin M. F. Platt)
Here’s the first photographic image
of a black hole.
In it one clearly sees
a black hole.
Millions rejoice,
discuss the event,
and circulate the photo
on social media.
White is white.
Black is black.
A hole is a hole.
That neighbor who smokes on the balcony
is a neighbor who smokes
on the balcony.
This text is now being read by you.
Yesterday was yesterday.
Let’s synchronize watches on that point
of determinacy.
Wave to one another in the window.
Exchange glances.
And move along.
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7. |
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Praise to Friday
(Translated by Kevin M. F. Platt)
Just arrive already, Friday evening,
give us a bit of coffee and spice
and let the slow hookah stem
stop the stiff gears of hurry.
Peace to you, laborers from Office A.
Go your ways contentedly, rattling
the keys of cars that will carry you off
to joyful Friday traffic jams—
beyond them only couches and televisions.
those who prefer the music venues’ crush,
also go for cocktails of various head-spinning essences,
yet know as well the beer draught that froths at whiskers
and tingles at lips, instigating a hunt for salty fare,
and wit about the neckline plunge of the new bartender.
Sing to us, Friday; rustle hand-rolled tobacco;
sing us the numbers of the most convivial girls,
dancing on tables like they’ve seen in cinema,
in B movies from the continent of America.
Oh Friday, I love your gaudy shadow
and the feeling of leaving unfinished tasks
for Monday, like placing a seal on a cave
with a languid dragon, hole-punch instead of maw and fangs.
I’m a modest man who toils steady and slow
each day, meekly surrendering morning and afternoon hours,
but even I can remember the Friday door slams and
happy stride down the stairs.
I too worked in my time at Office A
and tried to entertain the secretaries stationed
in solitude across from the entryway,
and at lunch break wandered the neighborhood.
Now I contemplate Friday like a city
I’ve left behind, which comes to me in dreams,
drowned in the glare of neon light
a city full of people waiting for evening to come.
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8. |
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The Nineteenth Century
(Translated by Kevin M. F. Platt)
The start of the XIX century transpired in the XIX century.
In that time, everyone lived as if in the XIX century.
They were all completely fed up with the XVIII century,
And preferred to leave the XX century for later,
As quite a difficult challenge, not to be resolved on short order.
They had certain years, for instance 1813, 1864
Or 1887, for that matter. In them, you could be born,
Or marry, or die. You could order
A portrait from a painter or be granted an audience with the king;
Or you could work year in and year out in the mines
Or herd sheep. They dressed only in XIX-century fashions—
All kinds of hats, bloomers, collars
Or flowing blouses and cravats.
They followed the progress of world events
And personal relationships, listened to opera
And attended the circus. It was only thanks to this
That the XIX century took place. Those folk led it on
And on like a puffing and hissing steam engine, with
Rails being laid directly in front of it. It was like that
The whole XIX century, that entire age. And no one slacked off.
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9. |
Processes / Процессы
02:36
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Processes
(Translated by Kevin M. F. Platt)
Stimulants are activated,
and effects increase.
Consequences are not far behind.
The sum total locks in a shift in habitual outlines.
Violet spotlights. Orange spotlights.
We see fragments of reality caught in the light
As confirmations of the stated tendencies.
New arguments impudently get underway,
And fall, cut down by contradictory conclusions.
But even so the discussion’s logic burns on, like an oil flame blazing above,
In which all that is said will be incinerated without pity,
Until the mica of truth finally solidifies.
Yet still it will convince no one.
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10. |
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Announcement
(Translated by Kevin M. F. Platt)
Now selling because purchased.
Purchased because was walking past;
Was walking past because it was spring;
It was spring because winter’s not eternal.
Winter’s not eternal because we too are not forever.
We are not forever because otherwise it would be dull.
Would be dull because would be neither beginning nor end;
Would be neither beginning nor end because that’s how it is.
That’s how it is, so now selling.
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SERGEJ TIMOFEJEV, OID, STEREOVOID Riga, Latvia
A dark, electronic and synth wave album, 10 tracks, atmospheric or furiously danceable, a unique collaboration between three artists: Latvian poet Sergej Timofejev, experimental electronic composer OID and synth wave artist and musician Stereovoid (Peine Perdue, La Chatte). Handmade record sleeves by Stereovoid in Standard or Collector edition + 1 booklet with the poems in English and French. ... more
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