Pregnant sky clouds
swim where matures word
it still ripen, and while
poet lonely and worthless.
but has completed itself in flight,
he only appear in the flesh,
when it does not have to be flesh.
Such deadly farcical trick.
What do the same for you, Volodya, Sasha, Bob?
Furiously rubbing sound on sound
create music and the music of the second.
Words … what words? Powerless to rock,
when someone warmed,
but then grin god
serpentine grin Salieri.
And that’s when we Coy then internalize
and Coy as seriously regret,
zapem later, left with his own,
we do not fly, times heavier than air.
Loss are endless and bitter
accidental and minute findings,
and destruction sweeps race
with another abortive birth.
The interweaving of words dumb silence,
an oval loop lurks a note.
Grab it! But whip entered.
And you have to sing, but did not sing something.
And cavalry windows and shout blade
two of the bed — a little more than half the kingdom.
I was with you — I was not alone,
I thought that did not end patsanstvo.
Patsanstvo over, and narrowed the bed,
and I woke up in a like buckwheat.
And I, as before, nothing to hide.
But — open … Yes Che too: covered-I have nothing.
If the soul does not curve, means soul bloody,
endless strategist inveterate invisible war
but quiet piano, devoid of buttons,
Hopelessness seems to me the usual silence.
Black crows are painted in white and croak louder
pack is enormous, but each is gorgeous and cool,
old parables feeding their new helmsman,
they do not care and they are eaten with relish.
Perhaps, though, these are dark allegory,
Only because I do not write-through hits
but emptiness where only poets and children,
seems to me the vastness of the usual emptiness.
I popped into this world to smoke and get warm,
smokes is, and heat — are small catch
only words that are cut from the surface of the heart,
seem to me povesomey everyday words.
What do I have to tell you, dear Nina,
zapamyatyvaya not yet, but do not love?
Maybe, as my Father beheld in a dream Hölderlin
as in a dream I one day see you again.
Hunting joy fucking yes oh so to find out would
where the satisfaction, but the rhyme again tells.
All heals, always heals before marriage,
all heal and after does not hurt.
Time will pass, do not put in place,
march on us, as a military parade
but hooking pupil clay of this text,
maybe you will smile, and I’ll be happy.
I knife holes in a jar dyryavlyu,
from the gazirovochki bank tin,
Visna snow-white thread between dream and reality,
I put in the cold sweater wool.
And the soul kick as if the floor of the barracks,
it would all narevetsya, and its on the parade ground.
You lie down, sweetheart, to survive until tomorrow:
us with you accept my old mattress.
We vystudim resentment, all went according to my mother,
Well, here you become quiet winter.
FICO for you with butter, butchers punishers,
yes fluff zemelku for you — myagenkaya bed.
I would be more holes I was picking in jars,
that are left, that you let Mad absurd.
We are with you the most cute couple.
Come-ka with a knife — to cut pure white light.
The lack of things more bearable,
worse, if there is no substance
and on the other side of the window of my somewhere past
empty world falls foliage.
Nests on the ceiling something evil,
suffers from the vacuum head,
in notebooks under the thick layer of ink
carefree dissolve words.
And no sense for a penny soul eternal,
when it is not in the heresy of reproach,
monofilament silence of the universe
abstract as any scale.
And I no longer feel the patch
on the finger that an air raskrovil,
from heaven fall down drains plasma
add ground forces impotent.
I’m obsessed with it in the usual hell
but there is still only one thread.
As well, you’re next to me:
something you really can not cancel …
as well priperlo,
line joints creak
and scraping the larynx,
and the voices of the crippled,
threaten cowardly eternity
grows out of the heaps of rubbish,
of humus days
An idiot, and hooks,
and asks the words
and will never end,
while there is life.
Calm. Post storm me
because soon I will not need the storm.
We play with a mirror Burime,
it is with the death of my life rhymes.
Invented dances on a knife
absurd from end of each line
of punctuation characters already
I’m not amicably with a comma, and the point.
Not the words, not the melody,
I played in a carefree childhood.
In my, I think would be mild summers
slept too Venevitinov raschudesny.
Even a little, and Lermontov I
survive, the viability of the cattle.
I shall utter what I life stinks,
that verse is mine — mine is disarmed.
And then there popret Yesenin,
and then — Pushkin, Byron, Mayakovsky,
and God forbid ahead of me dies
a gentle verlibrist Capital.
But God will not. He does not give the date,
and Prosody — not from God.
I Zazhilsya On stair clearance
go Qurna — to kill herself a little.
Measured rumpled bed,
Breeds night in the window frame,
And so sick rhyme,
How to draw a swastika on the temple.
Creepy fork, but the ordinary,
Half-empty rows multiplied,
Itself can not flatten,
But not plasteel no longer can.
Poetry — a Sisyphean task,
Majestic feat nerd
But you yourself own supreme court.
And the pain is normal. And the blood. And vomiting.
I have nothing to say. I know of a few:
as it grows on the deep exhalation,
when you are bound to agree with God
and reaching for him rough tongue,
as the rain singing in the temple, as ripening word
jumping up and flying in the silence and the cry:
he has to spit, it is ready
fall flat on a moment aroused.
And it falls. And in the air through-
such emptiness, palate that hot.
These are the things … But I also know
NIGHT MODE as you sopish, burying me in the shoulder,
and wet your lips carefree Kasane
I learned a long time ago, as the Russian alphabet.
I know what «good-bye» is no match for «Goodbye»
I know, in the end, the pain itself hurts.
But this is not to say everything in secret podnachalnoy
throat, swollen with unshed tears.
One. And the rest of me that’s enough,
to survive somehow. And die seriously.