(from the Morning)

red clouds and a newly-born house:
friends who are creeping near the window,
eager to look inside
do not worry, they are
just a sound
of round-like shouting

because of that you ́re waking up
and passing by.     only dust on the furniture,
how many names does it remember?
how many times
you need to forget?

the pink covers the floor.
and water is
now you can hear
it is flowing
all around
is being able to speak
and it says
farewell, yan
it is time to leave

and then perishes

throwing a dice
was unsuccessful and now

arms are floating around
in conjunctions
other parts
such as
chick dimples

corporeality is protesting
becoming furious
entering rage
making a
critical hit
that you need

to make a respawn

a sound of glass broken. it is
from the window, your f(r)iends
are waving
and space
between search n` shoulder
is sweetly anticipating

no more belonging, you are a flag
far away from
anything similar to celebration

lights from a car


lights from a car hit you suddenly
as if you were unprepared.
you don’t know what to do
except of moving yourself —
so you move, making new steps
hoping it won’t take you so far,
but it is
of coarsely, not the right path.

yet you’re still able to hear the sounds of car
approaching |car is approaching!| but it is
not really on the ground |it’s floating|
or heading to east
in attempt
reach eternal

and you ask yourself finally
maybe you should
go there as well
and then
all types of words disappear,
can only transmit the reflections
from your head to your body and the
only sense left

it is feeling of home

it enlightens the road
just in few meters

sometimes words from birds sparkle
— it is not really birds’ singing —
sometimes you meet faces
from leaves on the walls –— heroes of dreams
or your favorite videogames

they’re all speaking
to you

what was then said?

and you know
that it was
the only thing that you want

it was

welcome back


let me carry these boxes for you
to a bungalow,
yes, you are right,
they’re going to chase us with radio voices.
do not be afraid — the wind
takes it all far away  
to the depth
of the scenery workshop

the only noise left is the goosebumps
running down a sun-kissed back
caused by playing which is
fluttering in the breeze
which is around
surf shelter buildings

you’re taking my hand, then you speak
don’t be afraid of surreal love
and then
    but not at that time
buoys are shutting me out:
and no impediments, none!
of them, then it comes, the

i n v i s i b l e

с o n t i n i o u s

t e n d e r 



Ian Liubimov is from Russia. He has been writing poems for nine years but, of course, not in English. He studied foreign philology at Chelyabinsk State University in Russia. His passion is dance — and you can see corporeality in his texts. He also participated at Between the Lines Session in 2017. He currently lives in Slovakia.

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