The dorm is noisy all day long, and the hungry eyes of students peer out the windows. Of all the most beautiful, it turns out that the most beautiful is a plate of rich borscht. Petersburg, a hero city. There's the Saltykov-Shchedrin Library. Lenfilm used to release 30 excellent feature films a year. The dorm stirs all night long, purring with desire.

Somewhere, on White Nights, Shevchuk sings to us about wars. The world, empty-headed, lost in sleepy wilds. And Shevchuk kept repeating: Revolution! And the people yawned at everything: occupation... And Shevchuk lost his way in the justice of Good and fell, and didn't rise, and couldn't until morning... And the war still carried, still on the black wings of Death. Where a bullet took everything, the Muses will be unable to sing.

I paced the road with fatigue, tortured my heart with scorching love, and was completely exhausted... Without writing myself out. Peace. You, of course, will laugh. I look into the whiteness of the sheet as if in a mirror. And I cannot contain the heartache in my chest. You don't care... You ask me to stay. Well, I leave this life, of my own free will.

The All-Bestial Values ??and Rights of Cheburakha

Big-headed cattle, large-horned cattle, Siamese cats, and other animals began playing croquet in the meadows near Paris. Hungry centaurs sang "Hallelujah," and the Extraterrestrial Mikhail Alexandrovich kissed the Extraterrestrial Tatyana Anatolyevna on the lips for a long, long time. She was shaking, her whole body ready to say... do....

But ALL THIS IS FICTION
THE TRUTH

Cattle chewed grass, green and otherwise, steadily and dully. Cattle, small-horned, cloven-hoofed, and just plain livestock, indifferently marched to the slaughterhouse and were imperturbably transformed into sausages, frankfurters, and liver. Siamese cats fucked all non-Siamese cats. Persians copulated with all the pretty cats. The rest of the animal kingdom multiplied.

Croquet was played near Paris, London, and Washington, and only near Moscow did they drink vodka and play cards—the meadows near Moscow were fertilized with Tampax. Hungry centaurs were fuller than ever, and even more well-fed priests and devils sang "Hallelujah." Mikhail Alexandrovich was an ordinary Misha (you can even capitalize it). Tatyana Anatolyevna was a student at Leningrad State University, and it's better not to mess around with her! Misha didn't kiss Tanya—he was shy. Tanya kissed Misha—twice, both times on the lips, fleetingly, lasting only a split second.

Tanya wasn't trembling. Tanya wasn't ready to say anything, and Tanya wasn't even thinking about doing anything. Tanya boarded the train and left.

And all this is the honest truth.

Lord! Your priceless, heavenly gift inspires madness in me. Lord, are you mad, or does the blood of unconscious thirst flow through my veins? My rebellious mind overthrows thrones and halos, tearing them off, casting them into the dust — what can they compare to? Lord, You who created the Virgin and the Serpent, You who scattered knowledge and the stars, do you know the meaning? Why? For what purpose? Do the wheels of our lives turn, only to get stuck in the mud or fall into a hole? Lord, I ask, answer! Are you not Lord, or am I the master?

About Little Gray Riding Hood and the Red Wolf
(a tale from the book "... the plastic fish")

One day, it was spring, a girl named Gray Riding Hood was summoned and sent by her mother to her grandmother — her mother's mother, that is — with pies and other food.

This grandmother lived in a remote forest, alone, in an old hut. Without a television or cell phone. It's not hard to guess why this grandmother lived in the forest... Gray Riding Hood put on ripped jeans and a men's T-shirt and trudged into the forest with a backpack.

And in that forest, the Wolf was quartered; they called him "Red," for the reason is also easy to guess. This formidable predator, always dressed in a NEPman jacket, was strolling with two hired camouflage guards (persons of Caucasian ethnicity), along paths large and small.

Karl Marx flew past, saw this, glided to the edge of the forest, and hid in the bushes. And Gray Hat, not a nudist by nature, having just found her way into the forest, shed her clothes, stuffed them in her backpack, and marched toward those old ladies — they were! And she walked completely naked. And then, Batko Makhno, the famous owner of a very large X...

And that's the end of the story. If any individual recognizes themselves in this Gray Hat, and it's not hard to guess, then let that individual be offended if that's what they want. If not, then let them read the Kama Sutra and learn something else.
Bah...

A question about "Mona Lisa"

Have you ever seen anything like this? Yesterday I finished my best painting, exactly a year in the making! All I've experienced is the joy of inspiration and the torment of doubt, disappointment, despair... But still, here it is, the one I've named — Mona Lisa!

Critics told me it was exactly the same, they'd seen it somewhere before, who knows how many years ago, maybe even a hundred! Some artist had already painted my Mona Lisa, they said I'd stolen it, stolen the idea brushstroke for brushstroke.

Well, I don't know, I've never seen anything like it before. Maybe my detractors are lying, maybe they're playing a prank? Or maybe it is, but only in appearance, in the background, it looks like it? After all, I wasn't working as a shoemaker, but as a creative artist!

But the trouble was, one of them actually brought back a postcard, and on it was my Mona Lisa! Printed at the Zhdanov Printing House. I couldn't believe my eyes—how could they have done it? I looked more closely, and there was the inscription: "Leonardo da Vinci... Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa... Louvre, Paris." To say I was upset would be an understatement, much worse. My Mona Lisa is exactly the same, only newer and worth a penny...

Yes, that's how it is: I've wasted so much time, spent so much material, enough brushes for ten such Mona Lisa paintings, and what about the soul, the inspiration? Who counts such trifles, especially when the result isn't so impressive...

I'd rather have agreed to paint stalls...

©1997 Mikhail Dmitrienko, Alma-Ata