Poetry from Vyarka Kozareva


Of course,
We all could condone any vitriol 
Spilt on the rifts of the long hibernation.
The flesh seems fresh than conjoined
For those who want to believe it.
You see it banal from the space
Between your index and thumb.
The night is blank sentence,
Projected perfectly onto the medulla oblongata
The vector of light pokes the horizon
To trace the core of the cross.


The top layer swanks creamy
Decorated with an arty-farty cut lemon body
Ornated and candied,
More aesthetic than functional.
Nobody knows and wouldn’t ask
If some hours ago
The acid juice splashed its hangman’s pink skin, 
Seeking dormant wounds
To nip.


I try to imagine my curbed ego,
The marking commas, the restrictive brackets.
I knew the coin’s been already thrown
For a voice which grammar has many cogent rules.
The new beginning would be inky,
Far from all those pastel-painted frames
With empty rooms fostering pastorali
In stuffed poultry hearts.
The real blood never puts artless colors on its pride.
From the chandelier fell too much of words 
Keeping silence about the profit of being mortal.
I tried to discern the salt in the wound, bugs on the face
Worn promises, Holly knowledge. 
I regret losing my taboos in remission of sins
But the new me still has time to slip into my old 
Long haired coat
Because the snappish winter is coming close.         


Morning is tiptoeing over to the window
Like a cat
Descending the tree of wishes
Head first
To see all ghosts off
Too modest in their self-knitted hats
And backs heavy with the weight of the tenderness.
Interjections wait woven into the soggy day.
Lungs implore more oxygen.
Movements set a Morse code rhythm
Flirt with coffee steam 
Dance under the wind’s baton
On the garnished with fine mica flakes pavement.
From the crowd’s sleepy orbits 
Protrude huge, perplexed, yesterday‘s question- marks.


We are charming in ochre, scarf-styled,
Radiating that exceptional dress sense
While fall is parading its paradigms.
The warmth of gold is already proven
Out of time arguments
When the taste for art mimics the lack of logic 
In the global language.
Sometimes we wonder
If the closed societies undergo attitudinal changes.
In fact, silk on wool presents fond delusion in rainy days.
That world’s hurly-burly,
A storage of nonsense we use to feed scraggy wars
Pretending that they’re somewhere far
In order to satiate our nonchalance 
And quell any inner disturbances.
Happy hypocrites we are
If believe in the grace of the swan neck
Garlanded with luxurious plumage.
Beneath the camouflage— the wormy throat.