{"id":3875,"date":"2026-02-10T20:33:18","date_gmt":"2026-02-10T17:33:18","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/nottoday.media\/en\/?p=3875"},"modified":"2026-02-10T20:33:20","modified_gmt":"2026-02-10T17:33:20","slug":"poems-ronik","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/nottoday.media\/en\/emigration\/poems-ronik","title":{"rendered":"Poems. Ronik"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

We continue to introduce you to young writers. This time, we present the Moscow poet Ronikam\u2014 a guy born in Moscow, in his thirties, who has fallen out of ordinary reality. He lives in a cart somewhere between Tbilisi and Moscow.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

***
Sudden loss of connection \u2014 come on, stop. You sat on ataraxia, I \u2014 at the bottom. The wind is fatal, the meeting was canceled, But still \u2014 let there be no war.

On insensitivity, a dotted sentence, The obviousness in lumps \u2014 into the pits of wounds. You are deceptively alive still, A couple of sessions \u2014 and Iran will be rebuilt.

Laughter and flame, the hearths of ashes Along the wreckage of the Untouchable without “suddenly.” Not by chance, but we are not enemies, Just, before meeting \u2014 a fear.

The fear of freedom, the fear of embraces, just fear. Not with verbs to fight in confinement. Again “Yes,” a grain sticks to the teeth, Life is independent \u2014 a rope of paths.

Under the hollow sky, no renewal can be found, Better to fall \u2014 pulse at the sacrum. Life with breath, a pinch outward, A drop of shame from the mischief of the nipple.

The ruffled rooster will sing the song of grief, Onyk \u2014 like a little pig… Nearby, a character is whining. Restlessly, the plane pulls towards the abyss, Happy without a bottom, happy with the scars of surroundings.

***
Fatigue, the knee-breaking twist. Yesterday \u2014 a friend, now a packet. Where the dawn edge flickers, A fresh bouquet of your tales.

Little phrases pour into my ears. It’s a pity they don’t stick \u2014 the lubricant is gone. That is, you remember what happened \u2014 not fairy tales, So it stings and dances the soul.

Through “when” and with meaning, vows, Through the sorrow of those gone far away. Call me, sky, summer, There, from the window into the darkness \u2014 the days of youth.

A silhouette of an important girlfriend, The bitterness rings sharply from boredom. Nerves scatter, like servants, To places and people under the beat.

This is a tremor, a prelude to a sigh. Life is not a field \u2014 lived, and they sing. Fatigue. For someone \u2014 an era. For someone over the grave \u2014 a salute.

***
Hide the absence of the ability to love, To do something, or a shot through the window. The situation is out of the ordinary. The lanterns Form silent laughter, a spindle.

The pattern is woven by nerves, a memory. Sorrow, and somewhere, a chirping in the ear \u2014 little bells. The sleigh rushes through the snow, with a conversation with the sky: “Where to? And where is the way to Solovki?”

In that random moment, standing on the street, To recognize if someone asks for your hand. You don\u2019t feel it, but you remember me, For desire, your strength is not needed.

Behind the possibility, the earth smolders, Behind the defocus in helplessness \u2014 a tear. From the moment, you can live, not die, Only a fool’s mind paints images.

Hopeless descent of the bones. Whether in checkers, the notorious nod, Unceremoniously \u2014 let it lie abandoned, Or love \u2014 well, then through the mouth a yawn.

Ah, deceptive scars-blisters, A bed distorted by reality. I said there are worlds further ahead. But for now, go to the side from here.

***
Conversation. A breakdown of interjections. Flame steadily nods in the distance. A storm threatens with the bad weather. The day began… already deceived.

The contents of the whole year, The entrance point into the emptiness, Where freedom burns on the walls, In the heat\u2019s reflections \u2014 about something dreams.

The second-year student stuck on the inside: How to get through this day to the end? To grab life \u2014 like Tarzan, Losing only a little bit of face.

Betrayal distorts grimaces. Reflection \u2014 also an outcome. Explain, how much plastic did you eat, To live among the world could you?

Or is the voice that sounds \u2014 a whim, The understanding is clouded by glances. Since I betrayed \u2014 in the role of Judas, Why does this heart whine?

What they teach us \u2014 is awarded, Ashes fall, flakes of offense. The finger nervously taps behind the fence, Apologizing for not being dead.

Unobtrusively, under the skin of meaning, To justify \u2014 and onward, backwards. I live, while troubling the body, And with my soul, I leaned on hell.

So clearer \u2014 the habit of control. “Love” \u2014 that’s what the doctors taught. Or enemies from that mined field… Maybe I mixed up the dream? Shout.

Dance on the border of paradise \u2014 That\u2019s your role. Where\u2019s the script? In tears. Heal, teach, rejecting. On repeat \u2014 destruction, a flap.

Confusion. Who\u2019s truth is this? Phrases, rustling, running through fire. Waiting to live, then the ticket, Or when the inscription flashes \u2014 “I love”.

October 2025.

***
It is necessary to take care in dirty corners \u2014 Gliding lightly, purring with filth. Obviously, you live, sharing ashes, Kicking the song of love through a cough.

With reflected excess, I\u2019ll keep quiet, Stirring it so you understand it clearly. Dear friend, keeping the provisions, Look around \u2014 maybe you’re dead, satisfied?

Small-small on the cheeks of love \u2014 The whim of meanings, a pimple\u2019s pus flickers. Spank, buy, hug. And the consciousness melts like butter.

Realization, whose fool are you here, Your presence flickers, scratches. Oh, sorry, irrelevant question: Not about sex, or how life here is lived.

For you were taken from the start, They placed pranks in your head. You\u2019re a factory vessel without a king, A squinting concept on injections.

Too bad. Emotionally covered gently. From “when” \u2014 the damned tremor by the wall. Rain cuts through the sores in a straight line, Moral veins are appearing.

***
Where something suddenly repeats from a dream, No rhyme, alas, fear, but it scrapes with importance. And if spring rises from the veins aloud \u2014 It won\u2019t sprout, it will rather spread.

To finish, the scar from tears itches in the brain. Spit, your memory smears itself. Doubt \u2014 my homeland, my beat: I joke with a heap, I know how to hurt.

You practice a harmless form Of closeness, sex, caresses through the membrane. And somewhere there, you can barely hear the dog whine. The world is crumbling into a funnel, spasms in the bath.

From childhood, I remember, leaf through the years, Tell about what pains exist in the world, Where now are the wires from the heart? They are not sneakers \u2014 roles dry in oil.

Notorious clouds of “I want.” Step, abyss, run or stay. Your fear, you want \u2014 I\u2019ll swallow it with a sneeze, While the strict bride doesn\u2019t see.

25.10 \u2013 17.11.25

***
Tomorrow, drops of death, rewinding, Rhombus phrases about the days, blood in the floor. The image formed in the gums \u2014 or the throat Will call to the dinner table.

Tomorrow life will transplant closer. The squint, soaked in tears. The moment will tear into meaningless sludge Or poisoned by emotion, a surge.

Tomorrow is Tuesday, born on Saturday, Will choke on the Buddhist path. Or meanings will multiply with vomiting \u2014 In the middle of dreams, we reflexively sing.

Tomorrow in “was” hangs somewhere there, Either an eternal draft, silence blows. Arranged with flesh from spam, Above space, shamelessly you soar.

Tomorrow, the day will turn into a chase, What to hit yourself with in the echo. Tie childhood\u2019s burrow with a tongue. The body freezes with an attempt in the hand.

***
There is no peace from people, just the laughter of the inside out. You don\u2019t have the right ticket for the session about tanks. The sun drips from the face, songs and lies. You have so much villain in you, that traps buzz.

The mosquito season from hope is blowing with sweat. Screams, children, sucked-out honeycombs. To fly like a bird near the beam until the sunset trill, Sadness \u2014 just a way of life\u2019s smoke, how we managed it all.

Retelling sticky dreams \u2014 the entourage of wintering, Tripped over love there, by the pillow. Bare, shy steps on glass and snow, Putting on boots, they nullified the pleasure.

Demons-demons, like a catch, you love tales, Whether blood or sperm along the corners \u2014 that\u2019s all the mischief. On repeat, the carousel, rhythmically flowing, Memory \u2014 a heap of speeds on the window with geranium.

Lullaby at night for unborn children. Fear, today you scream loudly at dawn. Wake up, leave a scar, a painful mark, So that sometime, a fool remembers the days of candy.

It\u2019s a shame. Cry. Where\u2019s the tear? An empty pocket without sorrow. I always want \u2014 a storm and the sound of the sea in my ears. My feelings \u2014 a guide in the nettles. The lanterns smell like blood. Squeeze the drain. And it was.

***
This inscription with blood on the lip About freedom, unnoticed by the stream. In the shine, hands grope through fate, Bitterness suddenly becomes subjective.

It comes alive, wandering along the edges, Like a virus, it drags along the body. Forgetfulness, where occasionally caught: Nerve flashes, shaking desires.

The conversation like the melody of a maenad \u2014 Complaining, shameful with scratches. Every moment, a song of Sodade, Do you hear, the tone in the pre-chamber breaks.

The plan for old age \u2014 the executioners groan, Written in uneven “maybe.” The conscience of the battery heats up, Disturbs with the mosquito\u2019s lust.

Therapy, blood stands by the eyes. The cat’s pulse meows at the darkness. Give the void away, whoever you didn\u2019t save. “Ave” will be read over the grave.

Close to close, whispered into the hole, Giving epaulettes, what was before. Smile, if I die first, Burn all the tears about hope.

***
Dreams on the hard drive, irrecoverable debts. Letters of happiness \u2014 a swarm from the past, but not. This time rubs boots And sends greetings to restless wounds.

Feelings \u2014 maybe, forgot The smell of something important under May\u2019s November? Screams from above or songs from the graves \u2014 Cut your root, here is Absence, we\u2019ll leave.

Life scrapes with a tremor in the light, just like you. Here\u2019s the link, here\u2019s the quote \u2014 pick it up. Step into the vacuum, calculate with poverty. Too bad, not in “Brother,” where suddenly a shot \u2014 and into the tram.

Promises on a pinch \u2014 cab, From attempts, they\u2019ll refuse us brakes. What was yesterday? It may not have been serious. Just, Mama, it wasn\u2019t explosions, but a storm.

The day rushes \u2014 the wires of meanings snap, We\u2019ve reached the finale, where we weren\u2019t expected. From the emotions of grown-ups \u2014 chaos. From the smile, everyone will feel lighter… Barely.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

We continue to introduce you to young writers. This time, we present the Moscow poet Ronikam\u2014 a guy born in Moscow, in his thirties, who has fallen out of ordinary reality. He lives in a cart somewhere between Tbilisi and Moscow. ***Sudden loss of connection \u2014 come on, stop. You sat on ataraxia, I \u2014 […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":3876,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[4],"tags":[14],"class_list":["post-3875","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-emigration","tag-chytac-u-jemigracyi"],"acf":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/nottoday.media\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3875","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/nottoday.media\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/nottoday.media\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nottoday.media\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nottoday.media\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=3875"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/nottoday.media\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3875\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3877,"href":"https:\/\/nottoday.media\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3875\/revisions\/3877"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nottoday.media\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/3876"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/nottoday.media\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=3875"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nottoday.media\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=3875"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nottoday.media\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=3875"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}