Talking like Pushkin to his horse, I climb
into thick equestrian aesthetics. I'm
horseman and veterinarian in one
on an estate of troubled youth, I am
an aristocratic fop, hello,
galloping at full gallop shooting at treetops,
yahoo to you Sir in treble multiplication,
I know about stallions and I'm
out of here to the city soon, I must meet
N. or K., I forget which, and then the zisters C.
Sorry, I mean the sisters Z.
My sideburns incinerate the furniture in the salon
of Y. I do not care
for C++ , for I live in the nineteenth century.
I barely lived through math at the Lycée.
I'm now dans une boutique.
Vous ne parlez pas français? Merde, vous êtes alors
crétin, mon vieux monsieur le barbecue!
What are you a Volga Tatar or something?
Actually I've never been to Kazan but I wanna go
some day, maybe when the emperor exiles me.
You look familiar, I know you from somewhere.
So what brings you to St. Petersburg on
this particular twist of the century?
Lozenges of the imagination climb
reflected in the Neva of the sky
and in the sky of the Neva and farther
along the Nevkas, and the stars, the stars
shine viscerally like old duel scars
anticipated. I am stuck at home.
I'll never see you, Paris, London, Rome.
Adrenal memory flows and gels and burns,
acting in combination with my sideburns.
I'll show you some transculture. Gospoda,
do you understand any Russian, ah?
Nyet? Damn, then I must speak to you in English.