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Whenever I'm not drunk enough

is a waste of time.

I carry within me a hypnagogic dawn,

maybe the insulation gnawed by rats,

maybe I'll never be back.

Ha ha to the mating swans.

Ha ha to the sepulchral golden slime

that shines and shines and shines.

This party started long before I arrived

with the last of wacko youthful chatter,

a curious crew, prone to slam-dance depression.

What's the matter? Don't know, maybe so

much hilarity is a strain on us or at least

we like to boast in loopy communiques

to those who've seen through us

and love us for what they see,

maybe some trees, a packing factory,

some secretive birdie hopping about

with a grasshopper in its mouth.

I don't know what I'd do without you

although that's how I spend most of my time.

It'd be unbearable otherwise,

like a vacation without sleeping pills,

without some creaking rain

abating the granite's breakdown.

Such a paltry gesture, my surrender.

Gruss

Dean Young

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translated from the Ukrainian written by
Natalka Bilotserkivets