from “C(o)urt Interpretations”

I murdered myself of all people.
Killed my illusions, my dreams,
and fell asleep like an angel.
On the third day I resurrected as a court interpreter.
Where are you, Fyodor Mikhailovich, old chum,
where are you so we can get pissed on vodka together?
My brother from the early age
who got me high without illegal substances,
stole my nights away, and caused psychosomatic disorders
back when I was still a little bear who wanted to see the stars up close.
Resurrect, get yourself by the bar,
bring along your imaginary bunch of criminals,
and I’ll bring along my real one
so we can have a vodka-drinking contest
competing as equals,
and draw the lines.
We are strong, born winners,
mine are not the kind to be conscious-stricken, I know them inside out.
I smell their sweaty palms in courtroom docks on a daily basis, and
I flirt with prostitutes, the only advantage of my profession.
Conscious belongs in novels.
Verdicts in the name of the people – which people? – my dearest,
are inefficient, they don’t cause internal struggles,
and conscious only exists in a poor TV adaptation of your novel.
Everything is an illusion, a cheap theatre play with even cheaper actors.
I know I’m going to beat you, old chum,
I only don’t know,
which one of us is better off?