March 28th by ANTON POLUNIN

yesterday I saw a ripped out dick

on a screenshot

dusted with dry earth

all alone in an open field

among human tatters

I saw a strip of face

a good few legs

and also how they were taking the scalp

off a man, still alive

this was in a rather brutal western

called scalps 

an example of honest and informative naming 

there was a scene

where they pierced a dude’s nipples 

with hooks

then tied one end of a rope to these hooks

and the other to a horse

and let it run into the desert 

then facebook deleted one of my texts


the word combination





did not seem militant enough 

to facebook

in these harsh times

what to do

war is war

dick ripped off for one

text deleted for another

everyone keeps the score

of their individual losses

their own personal blacklist

for future reconstruction and revenge

right now on my list 

there’s nothing of note

no wounds

not even any decent psychological trauma

though actually, today at the corner store, they ran out of vanilla doughnuts and I had to buy chocolate

nothing to be done about that, that’s war

the moskali can’t be envied at all

no sugar

no pads

president’s a dickhead

and the rest of them too



evenly blankets

fertile Ukrainian fields

still, the tribunal is soon

you can live in a clean cell

go to a toilet that isn’t outdoors

no bears

the Native Americans believed 

that the souls of the deceased 

continue to live in their hair

hence the theme with scalps

and burning books

the women of Carthage 

donated their braids 

to the armed forces

and I myself

haven’t cut my hair since the start of the war,

so that the soul doesn’t have to cram

itself into a lame undercut, 

if, say, suddenly, 

something I need gets ripped off 

or facebook

deletes another text

March 26th by KATYA LIBKIND

I wake up every few hours amidst any kind of activity. Half-a-day barrages of catharses. Half a day of nothing. The thought does not let me alone that we are in some veteran’s recurrent nightmare, that they’ve slipped us a trauma that is not at all our own. Some dudes decided to create a reconstruction—with the same words, ideas, instruments, movements—a kind of game they’re using to displace what happened to them in WW2 and after. That the “great Russian nation” just needs to win the war again to forget that they’ve long been killed and repressed. Or maybe they feel that death is the only truth in their lives, and that’s why they so eagerly hurl their bodies at us, pressing to feel something a little real.

Time is arrested and deeply shocked.

I pray to materiality and to reality.

On the third day of war I felt fear creeping up to me, that kind of fear that, they say, makes your limbs go numb. I went out into the garden, lay down on the ground, and the earth went through me, through my tremor, and made me dead and invincible. I discovered that the only thing left from the fear now was its power. My body heats up and strobes like it’s getting ready to melt the world. I understand that the coerced freedom of humanity will begin with Ukraine. Everything that was, has gone to shit and will now grow again from this broken but very living and luminous center. 

The butterfly in the video is Idea leuconoe. I bought her chrysalis and eagerly awaited the triumphant appearance of this sex machine, eagerly awaited her live beauty, and somehow attached too much importance to her arrival. A week before the war, she hatched; her belly was damaged, one wing was fully crumpled, the others she just couldn’t unfold. She tripped over her feet and tried to flap her soft wings for two more days. I fed her and weeped over her like I have not yet weeped over this war. My entire life coalesced in this unsymmetrical broken mandala. Everything that happened and everything that is possible will only be like this butterfly. Nothing more alive could have emerged for me. This is that center from which I now continue.

Idea leuconoe