By Agnieszka Mirahina.
she has a swastika on her belly and a worm in her heart
her eyes shine only when she fights or loves
there’s nothing romantic about it
besides, she’s bored
or she’s asleep, dreaming she has a swastika
on her belly and a worm in her heart
her god is a cynic
her god a philosopher, a saint, a healer
who will make you feel
because that girl is a typhoon, that girl is the sun
and I? I am the king of suns
the setting of my only sun will be divine
it will be as it should, and of its own accord
my hand will slip into my pants
before the revolution sweeps away and robespierre
castrated on the guillotine, the third man of the play
I, cynic god, promise
when done fucking your other girlfriend
into a constellation of stars
I will change her
caught me suddenly, defenceless, with the touch of razor
disrobing the shroud, cashmere, I cut into her with my eyes and cut off
her head, we sit eye to eye, ‘order me something’
already from the kitchen, billowing ribbons of steam
just between us, between
the lips, the rim of a chalice, cashmere, we play chess with a salt cellar
my eyes are trained on the kitchen
from kitchen to kitchen, billowing ribbons of steam
as though from the horse’s muzzle
talk talk to me, love is a flight
of birds, perhaps romantic? yet I’ve stopped being a romantic in defeat, bloody
a steak landed on the table, poetry of taste, cashmere I’ve picked up the knife
stuck fork into flesh and cut myself a piece: cashmere will pass
then I will pass, unseen by night, unseen by day
radiostations of the soviet union
the voice of moscow works the soviet union
radiostations, the voice of moscow
in the beginning was the word, arraigning armies, divisions and regiments
it named the worms and cast aside, the dumb infantry of that land
with the word moved brooms and shovels, shafts, furnaces, secrets
gone with the smoke or gone far far away to the dump
who knows who’s been taken in by the tale?
if the worms live on in asia, the voice of moscow
every word is order for each occasion works
radiostations of the soviet union
and under the floor, the music rumbles, does the soul exist?
(crematory furnace blazing out of awe on the last night darkness burning)
worms are defecting, the voice of moscow
work, radiostations of the soviet union
the last bullet for myself
word, every word is order, under the floor, the music rumbles
in the beginning was the word, the word expired
against you work the radiostations of the soviet union
high literary departure
for your high heels are these highways
overlaid with coke
you are the last to depart slowly
on the high heels
on the highway arisen from underneath
when I chase you off the cliff
a headless chicken
and behind another curve, on yet another tree
I will confess my love to thee
on the rocks
when the wind sets my vision
free as our boundless game
and minefields, motionless toys
purring old tunes
that once upon a time were wooden and plush
what word love, what word for perversion?
what word love, for perversion, what word?
feathers? cabaret? lace?
the woman wearing the mask of a cat?
or the woman with the cat by it’s tail?
Six poems by Agnieszka Mirahina translated for the first time into English for the 3:AM Maintenant series by Maciek Markowski and SJ Fowler.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Agnieszka Mirahina is a Polish poet, born in 1985. Her collections include the critically-acclaimed Radiowidmo (Radiophantom) (2009). She lives in Wroclaw where she studied Russian and Polish philology.
First published in 3:AM Magazine: Sunday, June 13th, 2010.