#boris ryzhy

[m00nb04rd5]

My clone high OC Boris Ryzhy,art by magentacravat

You can do Gothic themes and cute animals I guess

Boris Ryzhy @borisryzhyaskblog

[gouldblogger]

Boris Ryzhy as seen in the literary salon of his institute, Ural Mining State University. Screenshots from a 1992 documentary by Sverdlosk Film Studio

[yurkin0v]

‘Socrealism’. Poem by Boris Ryzhy, translation and art by me. Linocut and suffering on paper.

[intotheclash]

Non ho camminato nei tuoi sogni, né mi sono mostrato in mezzo alla folla, non sono apparso nel cortile dove pioveva o meglio cominciava a piovere (questo verso lo cancello e non lo sostituirò), era allettante credere, come uno stupido, che ti avrei incontrato presto, eri tu che mi apparivi in sogno (e mi prendeva una dolce tenerezza), mi sistemavi i capelli sulle tempie. Quell'autunno perfino le poesie in parte mi riuscivano bene (però mancava sempre un verso o una rima per essere felice). (Boris Ryzhy)

[42flies]

Судно (Борис Рыжий) by Molchat Doma on Apple Music

Song · 2018 · Duration 2:21

[evictedfromdreamland]

– Let’s walk, my friend, along an empty street Where frozen clementines of streetlamps hover and snow covers the distance like a sheet and all the stores have shut their doors forever. Show windows, neon glow, ditches and pipes. – It’s all so gruesome, hopeless, literal. And what do you, my friend, expect from life? – Sadness: it’s in the nature of the beautiful!” All that being quite so, we pass black walls. – What do you figure will happen to us tomorrow? A monstrous and eternal mannequin follows us with two perfect eyeballs free of sorrow. – Suppose he knows that storefront rose is dead, or his own ugliness, or the world’s fears? – He knows that there is happiness, my friend, yet you and I can’t see it for our tears.” - Boris Ryzhy, Let’s Walk, My Friend, Along an Empty Street, January 1995 (Trans. Philip Nikolayev)

[shestoiiapostol]

Городок, что я выдумал и заселил человеками,

городок, над которым я лично пустил облака,

барахлит, ибо жил, руководствуясь некими

соображениями, якобы жизнь коротка.

Вырубается музыка, как музыкант ни старается.

Фонари не горят, как ни кроет их матом электрик-браток.

На глазах, перед зеркалом стоя, дурнеет красавица.

Барахлит городок.

[minowly]

Boris Ryzhy (8th of September 1974, Chelyabinsk — 7th of May 2001, Yekaterinburg)

With a dead little puppet a dead little child Calmly sits on my bed in the dark. At my window a white eery shard Is about to fall down and spark.

"Who are you, baby boy?" - "I'm a girl, fellow Mister. Look at me, I became a puppet..." "- Ah, what you little girl want from me? I have pain of my own and can't stop it".

"Where were you when they brutally killed us? When the warplanes were circling above..." "I was writing and publishing thus With my words to spread kindness and love..."

Little blue mouth is bitterly curling, Then the puppet is slapping my face. I am waking up - sore and burning. At my window spreads cloudy space.

There is nothing on earth more humane than this hell, Nothing trite and as simpler as that. There exist kindergartens so well Five feet from the grove of deathbeds.

"- So please sleep in your warm grave again - I will have living juries and talks." Oh dear God, but wasn't I slain In your war, by the sweet simple folks?

1995