Unshaven and thin, with an angular face
He’s lain on my mattress
for several days.
A cast-iron shadow hangs down the stair,
the lips, huge and bulging, smuggle and flare.

“Hello, Russian poets, — his voice sounds wistful –
shall I give you a razor or, maybe, a pistol?
Are you a genius? Disdain all this chaos…
Or, p’rhaps, you will say your confessional prayers?
Or take a newspaper, clip out a bar
and roll self-reproach like you roll a cigar?”

Why is he cuddling you when I’m there?
Why is he trying my scarf on? How dare?
He’s squinting at my cigarettes… Oh yes!

Keep off me! Keep off!

© Copyright Alec Vagapov’s translation



Poems by Andrei Voznesensky

Andrei Voznesensky (Voznesenski, Voznesenskii, Voznesenskï, Wosnesenski, Woznesenski)