News

Навіны (Leibonik)

Local station, on air
    a report on farmer’s markets.
Painting fruits and berries,
    selling cheap blackouts,
No fire, just smoke,
    cherry orchard rapping.
The news once again
    is that nothing is happening.
Business as usual,
    nothing about war,
I am ready to swallow
    whatever you got.
Expanding and planting
    sweet peas and beans,
It’s gonna be raining,
    and how have you been?
Annual bonus,
    annual leave.
“Stop with the negative,
    just let me be!”
Seasoning my pasta
    with a grain of Caesium:
What is Yakhina writing
    about martyrium?
Making my living
    with duct tape and spit:
I am intellectual,
    a fucking elite.
Facing a corner,
    where no one can hear it,
I mumble my mantra:
    read the news you idiot.

        There’s no point in trying, it’s simply impossible
        To hide from the news in my mental Mongolia.
        My innermost comfiest Mallorca isle
        Is within reach of the Radio Genocide.

Inhale boiled potatoes,
    keep up with new domain names,
Get the bitter medicine,
    homemade penicillin,
Little by little,
    get back on your feet.
Make a little money,
    and donate a bit.
Time to detox
    before going to sleep,
On a couch with a book,
    some light reading ahead,
They bombed a train station,
    seven children are dead.
“Ukrainians deserved it”?
    “They were asking for it”?
You want inner peace,
    like Dalai Lama?
No struggle, no stress,
    it’s alright, mama?
One with wilderness,
    like a Sioux shaman?
And did you love Belarus?
    here’s a decade in prison.
An armored boot
    to break your spine.
What’s left to do
    when all is said and done?
Lie down in a pine box
    clutching your phone?
Before you’re in the news yourself,
    read the news you moron.

        There’s no point in trying, it’s simply impossible
        To hide from the news in my mental Mongolia.
        My innermost comfiest isle of Majorca
        Is within reach of the Radio Genocide.