Poetry by Inga Pizāne, Semyon Khanin, Anna Belkovska. Fiction by Jānis Joņevs. Translated by Jayde Will, Kaija Straumanis, Kevin M. F. Platt, Anton Tenser, Sasha Spektor, and Daniil Cherkassky.
Poetry by Inga Pizāne, Semyon Khanin, Anna Belkovska. Fiction by Jānis Joņevs. Translated by Jayde Will, Kaija Straumanis, Kevin M. F. Platt, Anton Tenser, Sasha Spektor, and Daniil Cherkassky.
At night fish scales and the yellow brilliance of holy figures would glimmer in me.
the future is the raw, then it gets braised in the present, and finally fried to doneness over low heat
How nice it was not knowing anything, except that what you were doing was important. To know that your daily actions contained some kind of hidden power. They believed that their work would contribute to the unified, inescapable, and impending victory.
You get used to everything. / To contemporary dance and poetry. / To Bukowski, who drinks and fucks in every third poem / and sends everyone to hell.
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