Prose in English
by Steven Duplij

Kharkov State University, Ukraine
University of Kaiserslautern, Germany


Poetry, a supernova of feelings. Physics, a supernova of ideas. A new string of letters, a new string of mathematical symbols are the two sides of the Moon, an alien Binary. Behind my soul they form a sphinx. I do not put apart the ideas of Physics and the metaphors of Poetry. The uncontrollable cold-fusion is necessary for my heart to create them. The newer the fuel is the farther the shot into the Future will be.

I believe Poetry cannot be constructed as a formula. Outer rules are transparent for Her, and only inner ones alive. The only rule is true: without a critical mass the reaction of Creativity will not start.

Feelings and ideas are collapsing to the so large densities that, independently of my desire, there is an explosion into Infinity. They are all-penetrating. Simply I am not able to avoid them, and I am not afraid any more that somebody will be grinning over my weakness, my sufferings, my complexes, my minuses.

Poephysics lets me elevate myself over them, over the way of life, over Time.


I am coming to you in the snow a metre deep. The wind with snow - into my face too. As if it is angry. My every step is a half of myself. I am falling, rising, going straight on and on again. I knew that these high words were to be said. And they have been uttered.

With every step of mine I was going through your whole life. And I have gone through it.

I have understood everything. Your loneliness, sufferings, aspirations and blows, our blows. Living with us, you were alone thrice. You were knocking without result into our souls, closed. And I was afraid of your eyes, longing to us, to our understanding and sympathy. In them there was our salvation.

Now I am reliving your life. I am doing the same things with the same end. This is your revenge, delayed. What for? So that I were rushing about among women all my life, discovering a part of you in them, trying to redeem my fault before you, worrying and suffering with them as you have been doing the same with us, in search of things which were not received from you for my impregnable misunderstanding. Yes, I have been doing this for so many years. Till today. I have been melting your revenge which is already not malicious and offended. In my love to you. In my understanding of you. Of the fact that namely me - is the man with whom you could have found the things you have been seeking for a long time, with whom you could have been really intimate. I have accepted you and understood you. But I have been late for just seven years. Only now, on the day of the seven-years since your death. Is it too late? No. Once again no. You know, this may not have happened at all.

I have removed the snow from your grave, giving you a possibility to breathe a little and to talk with me. I have been cleared up your picture and kissed you into your lips. I would so much like to embrace you alive. For the first time in my life. Very much. Truly.

Do you see that I am crying? Never mind. You see, these are the my first tears for you. Going away, I told you: "I shall change myself, you will see, I shall change". And then: "I shall come to you, wait for me". For the first time in my life I didn't feel like leaving you. There, behind the windy snow field, the strange city and alien living were waiting for me, but there the main thing was lacking - there was no YOU.


He is Time. Trying to deceive yourself. To fill yourself if only with anything. Not with a look into yourself. Over there it is not O.K. The intercourse is in vain, with void. By void. I am quiet alone. I am all by myself. But in the compulsory presence. There is vacuum. Around me. Inside me. I am struggling in my search of Him. But what for? And what of Him? Well, there is the abundance of Him. The whole day. And what is then? What is inside? Where is the motion of myself? Where is me? Where is my ego? Nothing but the torments of the Nothingness. The life is boiling outside the window. It is the pseudolife.

They are also trying to annihilate Him. Without feelings. There have dozens of imaginary businesses. To read everything. What for? To feel everything? What for? Not to know His inexorable rhythm. There is the Hope, not for the present. She is like the straw dragging you to the Bottom. And there is no way backwards. Till you hope.


Every Friday you inevitably come to me again. Pseudosex is on our schedule. The third lecture. With me. No missing of classes. There are orgasms, orgasms and again orgasms. But what are they to me? They are your selforgasms. They are empty, you know. In them the principal thing is missed. Love. Not even the smallest, even hardly breathing, even slightly warm. Yeah, you caress yourself and caress me with pseudocaresses. But whom? As you say , you caress me for yourself. What means you caress yourself. So where am I, after all? I am lodged in your next and grown-up now doll, lifeless, with a penis. I will not agree. Not on my life. You are even afraid of talking about love. Because there is nothing to discuss. There is no topic for conversation. Neither there is feeling. You have admitted this by yourself. But I have known this from our very beginning. And I suffer. I cannot finish the catching your fancy role of the coldhearted doll. The supplier of the empty orgasms - this is not for me. Thank goodness, that monkey's age have already passed flying by the window of my youth, when the physiology substituted everything. But now only it is not enough for me. Moreover, it is so sickish undiluted that it can be disgusting. Did you notice it? How I cannot kiss you into your lips? Certainly, nay. For, according to you, the physiological satisfaction is the only thing the man can give you. First - there is his penis like a piston. Till the yelling pain. Then - a tongue and a finger. Till the drawing of the mouth and convulsions. But what is next? Everything from the beginning. And - without feelings. And - without hope on the mutual penetration. Only - the selfdouche with y our own defecations. With material and emotional ones. What a beggar you are! And - an unhappy one. Although you, naive, hold quite the contrary. Although you are delighted that you feel O.K. for two days after our meetings. But "I am satisfied" does not mean "I am happy" at all. But have you asked me , what is happening with me during these two days? Why I feel so basely and vile? Why I am on the edge? The answer - is simple. Because I love. But not you. But Her. And you know whom. After all She - is invisibly present, She - is always near us, She - is inside me, in that soul of mine. And you feel that. And you are irritated. But I am grateful to you. For the fact that I have understood it once and for all. This is mutually useful. You - use me as a mechanical irritant and a lifeless executor of your primitive desires. I - use you. As , I thought, a woman whom I knew earlier than Her. And here we are. I lost my way in the forest of "closer" and "earlier". And I understood that the latter is powerless before the former. Yes. What have I called you for six years after our parting? Perhaps I hoped that you can substitute Her? You are very much alike. But now I have made sure that this likeness is only superficial. I do not know. Perhaps I am guilty myself? For what are my poems, songs and Her paintings to you? It is a pity that you do understand nothing in them, neither a line nor a touch. Or it is not a pity? All of them are transparent for you. Behind them you see in your imagination the reflection of a penis, thickets of pseudoorgasms, and amusements, joys, as a solid wall of the mutual estrangement. But I see a regular disillusionment and the abyss...

Every Friday you inevitably come to me again...


The Night - is the slave of the Death. Day after day dying in the hope to turn out different the next morning. Seemingly different. Dream - is the swallower of our aspirations. I hate it. But where am I to go? The Sheet - is the scope of the unvoicedness. Who needs it? Before whom? And what for? There is this clot of excuses. For the undone. The vice and virtue - where are they? In deeds? In ideas? In conceptions? - In the understanding of the essence. In the touch of the integrity, in the flow of life. Does a man smoke, who has swallowed up smoke under the whooping of the crowd "And you are sinful" too? Perhaps he laughs at the joy of the primitive understanding, that is, over the misunderstanding of all. The vice is a power over the human. It does not matter, what this power is. But any power - is already a vice. The circle has been closed.


Well, I have gone through Your dying till Your death. Nothing to write about further. Point. But, no! The infinity is inside this point. Which cannot be avoided. The wedding air. Let it be damned. Is it for keeps or no? It is just necessary to breathe. What for? My accursed imagination. What should I do with it? To imagine everything without You? There is senselessness and emptiness in the rest. Which for? Well, I have gone through Your motionless decease. The sufferings. Ours. Dreams. The expression of my face has been changed. Squeezed by the grimace of doom, that is not melted in the crowd and excites sympathetic looks which I do not see, but feel. Using my energy I push everybody apart and tear along to You. Only You. Now, it is quite clear for whom that charge of care having been saved up, which is thrown about to children by other unforgotten moral admonitions, ostentatious caresses and the excrements of their complexes. But for the beloved there are lies and the one-minute readiness for betrayal and faithlessness. If only nobody knows. And everything is allowed. And anxiety? Is it sincere even if sometimes? I imagine everything. And You are at my place. And You are moving one hand only. And you are creating. I am waiting. You are speaking. You call the number of the brush. We are mixing in the needed color. And we are creating. The things which are told by Him. The Reality? Nothing of Her. She is only a child born from the Dream and the desire to disappear. O.K. Let Her live. There is little to remain. How to deaden this pain-sovereign of the soul? My vodka - is a computer screen. I am feeling through it. It is easier to breathe. And - as if some meaning were giving rise. My vodka - are semigroups. But they do not save me either. I am catching at a guitar - the last straw. Nay. It is not what is needed. And just Your call. It is filled with the something different. For the first time You are not near me, but You - are here. Around. And inside everything.

I am drinking Your death to the dregs. There is no better beverage of roses. They, as if dead, stay in our vase, accumulating together with our celebrations. Waiting for the last drop. Do not hope...

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© 1996 by Steven Duplij