Yuri Hospodar

Three Poems

Thursday; Gulf of Finland

It’s not enough that Mayakovsky died for our sins.
More along his beach walks,
testing each syllable to hear the ocean,
stepping stones intruding on the feet,
or inviting.

I told that to the old guard,
the one in the changing room,
the terror of the local landmines
and anti-organizations,

who said the only thing to come from the sea
that day when Volodya walked upon the water
or almost anyway

was a gigantic rat, which when asked
he (the guard) described
as tentacled, thrashing, shiny,

Not like a rat at all, I observed.
Nor like a poem, the old guard drawled.

Are You Still Being Sold to the TV Set

I keep telling repetition that I’ll mean it one day,
headed out on the laundromat path.

It’s a nice lace doily, honestly,
all cormorants and pillow smells.
Still, a nagging feeling wombats away:
sometimes, heartache is just chest pains.

Try all you want with this hideous proposal;
I’ll be with the horse walking into the bar,
I’ll bathe in mineral water like a breath mint.
Have at it as you will, this concupiscence is remote
and taking no subscriptions.

When I say you’re a “beaut”,
I mean you’re a big flattened mountain:
terra incognita, incoherent,
in cahoots with all the rest.
All soprano tones as the base denominator.

Leave me to tipple with the garden gnomes
who spill their drinks, anyway.

The Artist Gets Arted By His Art

Jethro, look at this mess.
Wolverines everywhere, and dusted
tomes of Lovecraft shedding on the rug
I’ve just strewn rose petals o’er.
Turn back the boat!
The shore’s weird birds won’t let us beach
and anyway I do refuse to dock
on these mongrel shores.
The way they behaved!
You’d’ve thought it was Biloxi.

I’m talking to you. Jethro!
Is that a boner in your pants?

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