20 Answers

  1. Autumn Hawk's Cry (1975)

    The north-westerly wind lifts it over the

    blue, purple, crimson, scarlet

    the Connecticut Valley. He's already

    doesn't see the delicious boardwalk

    chickens around the dilapidated yard

    farms, ground squirrels on the border.

    On the air stream sprawled, alone,

    all he sees is a ridge of sloping hills.

    hills and silver river,

    curling like a living blade,

    steel in the notches of the rolls,

    towns similar to beads

    New England. Dropped to zero

    thermometers are like bins in a niche;

    they grow cold, curbing the fire

    leaves, spires of churches. But for

    hawk, these aren't churches. Higher

    the best thoughts of parishioners,

    it floats in the blue ocean with its beak closed,

    with the metatarsal pressed to the stomach

    -“claws in a fist, like fingers —

    smelling each feather blowing

    from below, glittering in response with an eye

    yagodoyu, keeping to the South,

    To the Rio Grande, to the delta, to the steaming crowd

    beeches hiding in a powerful foam

    herbs whose blades are sharp,

    the nest, the broken shell

    Red-flecked, scented, shadowed

    a brother or sister.

    A heart grown with flesh, down, feather, wing,

    beating with frequent tremors,

    just like a pair of scissors,

    – driven by heat,

    autumn blue, her own

    increasing by

    barely visible brown spot,

    a point that slides on top of a vertex

    ate; due to the emptiness in the face

    a child frozen at the window,

    a couple who got out of the car,

    women on the porch.

    But the upstream stream lifts it up

    higher and higher. In the underbelly feathers

    it stings with cold. Looking down,

    he sees that the horizon has faded,

    he sees, as it were, the first thirteen

    for example, it sees: from

    smoke rises from the chimneys. But just a number

    trub prompts the lonely one

    to the bird as it rose.

    Oh, where am I?

    He feels mixed with anxiety

    pride. By turning over on the

    wing, it's falling down. But the elastic layer

    air returns it to the sky,

    into a colorless expanse of ice.

    An evil eye appears in the yellow pupil.

    shine. That is, a cross between anger

    with horror. Him again

    it is overthrown. But as a wall – a ball,

    Like the fall of a sinner-back to the faith,

    it pushes him back.

    Its still hot!

    To hell with it. Everything is higher. Into the ionosphere.

    Into an astronomically objective hell

    birds where there is no oxygen,

    where instead of millet-groats of distant lands

    stars. What is high for bipeds,

    then for birds on the contrary.

    Not in the cerebellum, but in the sacs of the lungs

    he can guess: not to be saved.

    And then he screams. From bent like a hook,

    a beak like the screech of erinias,

    it breaks out and flies outward

    mechanical, unbearable sound,

    the sound of steel digging into aluminum;

    mechanical, because it does not

    designed for no one's ears:

    a bird falling from a birch tree

    squirrels, yapping foxes,

    small field mice;

    this is not how tears can flow

    nobody. Only dogs

    they turn up their faces. A high-pitched, sharp cry

    scarier, scarier than D-sharp

    diamond cutting glass,

    it crosses the sky. And peace for a moment

    he seems to flinch from the cut.

    Because it's warm up there

    It burns through space, like down here,

    burns your hand with a black fence

    without gloves. We, exclaiming ” get out,

    there!” we see a tear at the top

    a hawk, plus a web, to sound

    inherent, shallow waves,

    running across the sky, where

    There is no echo that smells like apotheosis

    no sound, especially in October.

    And in this lace, akin to a star,

    glittering, frozen,

    hoarfrost, in silver,

    with its feathers down, the bird floats to the zenith,

    to ultramarine. We can see through binoculars from here

    pearl, a glittering detail.

    We hear something ringing above us,

    like breaking dishes,

    like a family crystal,

    whose fragments, however, do not hurt, but

    melt in the palm of your hand. And for a moment

    again you distinguish circles, eyes,

    fan, rainbow spot,

    ellipsis, parentheses, and links,

    spikelets, hairs —

    former free pen pattern,

    a map that became a handful of brisk ones

    flakes flying down the hillside.

    And, catching them with your fingers, the kids

    runs out into the street in colorful jackets

    and shouts in English “Winter, winter!”

  2. “A shed tear

    I'll bring it back from the future,

    I'll put it in the ring.

    You'll watch it alone,

    put it on

    nameless, of course.”

    “Ah, others have husbands,

    rings made of red,

    mother-of-pearl earrings.

    And I have a tear,

    liquid turquoise,

    dries out in the morning.”

    “Wear the ring, bye

    visible from afar;

    then another one will pick up.

    And you'll get tired of storing it,

    there will be something to drop

    at night at the bottom of the well.”

  3. Out of nowhere with love, on the twentieth of March, dear, respected, dear, but it doesn't matter even who, because the facial features, frankly, can not remember any more, not your, but no one's loyal friend welcomes you from one of the five continents, keeping on cowboys. I loved you more than the angels and myself, and that's why I'm farther away from you now than I am from either of them. Far away, late at night, in the valley, at the very bottom, in a town covered with snow up to the handle of the door, writhing at night on the sheet, as it is not said below, at least, I plump the pillow with a mumbling “you”, beyond the seas that end and end, in the dark with my whole body your features, like a mad mirror repeating.

  4. What a pity that what your existence has become for me, my existence has not become for you.

    Once again, on an old vacant lot, I launch my copper penny, crowned with a coat of arms, into the wire space,

    in a desperate attempt to magnify

    moment of connection… Alas,

    the one who is not able to replace the whole world, usually remains

    spin a chipped phone dial,

    like a table at a seance,

    until the ghost responds with an echo

    the last screams of the buzzer in the night.

  5. Second Christmas on the beach

    ice-free Ponta.

    Star of the Kings over the port hedge.

    And I can't say I can't

    to live without you-because I live.

    As can be seen from the paper. I exist;

    I take a sip of beer, stain the leaves, and

    trampling the grass.

    Now in the coffee shop we came from,

    as befits temporarily happy,

    soundless were thrown out by the explosion

    in the future, under the onslaught of winter

    As I run south, I draw with my fingers

    Your face on the marble for the poor;

    in the distance, nymphs jump, on their thighs

    lifting the brocade.

    What, gods, if a brown spot

    The window symbolizes you, the gods, –

    did you try to tell us in the end?

    The future has come, and it is

    portable; item drops,

    The violinist comes out, the music doesn't last,

    and the sea is all wrinkled, and the faces.

    But there is no wind.

    Someday it is, and not-alas –

    We, will overwhelm the boardwalk bars

    and it will move to shouts of “don't”,

    raising the crests above your head,

    Where you used to drink your wine,

    I slept in the garden, drying my blouse,

    • smashing tables, the coming clam

    preparing the bottom.

  6. Swedish Music (1975)

    K. H.

    When the snow sweeps over the sea and the pine trees creak

    leaves a trail in the air deeper than a sledge runner,

    how blue can your eyes go? to what silence

    can an indifferent voice fall?

    Missing and out of sight, the world outside

    settling scores with a face like a Mameluke hostage.

    ..This is how a clam phosphorescens on the ocean floor,

    so silence takes in all the speed of sound,

    so enough matches to light the stove,

    so wall clock, heartbeat echoing,

    after stopping at this point, continue walking along that point

    towards the sea.

  7. Loneliness. The first one I read and always loved.

    When he loses his balance

    your mind is tired,

    when are the rungs of this ladder

    getting out from under your feet,

    like a deck,

    when spits on humanity

    your loneliness at night, –

    you can

    meditate on eternity

    and doubt your integrity

    ideas, hypotheses, perceptions

    works of art,

    and-by the way-the conception itself

    Madonna of the son of Jesus.

    But it is better to worship the given

    with its deep graves,

    which then,

    by statute of limitations,

    they'll seem so cute.


    It is better to worship the given

    with its short roads,

    which then

    to the point of strangeness

    They'll show up to you

    wide ones,

    they'll look big,


    littered with compromises,

    they'll look like big wings,

    they'll look like big birds.

    Yes. It's better to bow down to a given

    with her poor merils,

    which then to the extreme,

    they'll serve as a railing for you

    (although not particularly clean),

    keeping them in balance

    your limping truths

    on this chipped staircase.

  8. Honey, I went out late tonight

    get some fresh air from the ocean.

    The sunset was fading like a Chinese fan in the pit,

    and the cloud swirled like the lid of a concert piano.

    A quarter of a century ago, you were addicted to lula and dates,�

    I drew ink in a notebook, sang a little,

    she had fun with me, but then she got together with a chemical engineer and,,

    judging by the letters, she was terribly stupid.

    Now you are seen in churches in the provinces and in the mother country

    at the memorial services for mutual friends, which are now going on in a continuous line;

    And I am glad that there are more unimaginable distances in the world,

    than between you and me.

    Don't get me wrong. With your voice, body, name

    nothing is connected anymore; no one has destroyed them,

    but to forget one life – a person needs, at least,

    another life. And I have lived this share.

    Lucky for you, too: where else, except maybe a photo,

    will you always be without wrinkles, young, cheerful, mocking?

    For time, when confronted with memory, learns of its disenfranchisement.

    I smoke in the dark and inhale the rot of the low tide.

  9. !!! Especially the ending is impressive:


    Viktor Golyshevuptitsa no longer flies through the window.
    The girl, like an animal, protects the blouse.
    Slipping on a cherry stone,
    I don't fall: the frictional force
    increases with the drop in speed.
    My heart jumps like a squirrel in the brushwood
    of my ribs. And the throat sings of age.
    This is already aging.

    Aging! Hello, my aging!
    Slow flow of blood.
    The once slender legs of the building
    torments your eyesight. I advance
    the area of my feelings fifth,
    shoes skidaya, save cotton wool.
    Anyone who passes by with a shovel
    is now an object of attention.

    Right! The body repented of its passion.
    It shouldn't have sung, sobbed, or grinned.
    In the oral cavity will not give way to caries
    Ancient Greece, to say the least.
    Breathing badly and cracking my joints,
    I dirty the mirror. We're not talking about the shroud
    yet. But already the very
    ones who will carry you out enter the door.

    Hello, young and unfamiliar
    tribe! Time, buzzing like an insect,
    finally found the desired
    treat in the hard back of my head.
    My thoughts are in disarray and mayhem on the crown of my head.
    Just like the queen-Ivana in the terem,
    I can smell the breath of the mortal crown
    with all my fibers and cling to the bedding.

    I'm afraid! That's what it is to be afraid of.
    Even when all the wheels of the train
    roll with a rumble below the belt,
    the flight of fancy does not stop.
    Like the absent-minded eyes of an excellent student,
    unable to distinguish glasses from a bra,
    pain is shortsighted, and death is blurry,
    like the outlines of Asia.

    Everything I could have lost
    is completely lost. But I also achieved
    everything that was intended to be achieved.
    Even the sound of cuckoos in the night
    touches little — even if life is deceived
    or justified by it for a long time, but
    aging is the growth of the organ
    of hearing, designed for silence.

    Aging! There is more and more mortal in the body.
    That is, unnecessary life. The
    glow of the local light disappears from the copper forehead
    . And a black spotlight
    floods my eye sockets at noon.
    The strength in my muscles has been stolen from me.
    But I'm not looking for a crossbar:
    It is shameful to undertake the work of the Lord.

    It must be cowardice, though.
    In fear. There are technical difficulties.
    This is the influence of the coming cadaver:
    every disintegration begins with a will,
    the minimum of which is the basis of statics.
    That's what I taught in kindergarten.
    Oh, stand back, my killer whale friends!
    Let us enter the second field!

    I was like everyone else. That is, he lived a similar
    life. He was coming into the hall with flowers.
    Drank. Fooling around under the skin.
    I took what I was given. The soul did not set itself up for something
    that was not its own. He had a support,
    built a lever. And the space is just right, I
    extracted the sound by blowing a hollow pipe.
    What would you like to say at the end?!
    Listen, squad, enemies and brothers!

    Everything I did, I did not do for the sake
    of fame in the era of cinema and radio,
    but for the sake of native speech, literature.
    For what kind of passion-the priesthood
    (it was said to the doctor: let him be treated himself)
    Having lost my cup in the feast of the Fatherland,
    I now stand in an unfamiliar area.

    It's windy. Damp, dark. And windy.
    Midnight throws leaves and branches on
    the roof. You can say with confidence:
    here I will end my days, losing
    my hair, teeth, verbs, suffixes,
    a wave from the ocean with a cap that is like a Suzdal helmet, so that it narrows,
    catching fish, even if it is raw.

    Aging! The age of success. Knowledge
    of the truth. The wrong side of it. Expulsions.
    I have nothing against her or for her. If
    he goes too far — I'll cry out: it's absurd
    to restrain your feelings. For now, I can't wait.
    If there's anything left in me
    , it's not my mind, it's just my blood.

    This song is not a cry of despair.
    This is a consequence of running wild.
    This is — more precisely-the first cry of silence,
    whose kingdom I represent as a sum
    of sounds, previously ejected by the wet,
    now solidifying into a dead
    nature, as it were, by a firm larynx.
    It's just as well. That's what I think.

    That's what I'm talking about.:
    about turning the body into a naked
    thing! Neither do I look at the mountain, nor do I look down,
    but into the void-whatever it is that you have highlighted.
    It's just as well. The feeling of horror
    of a thing is not peculiar. So the puddle
    next to the thing will not be found,
    even if the thing is about to die.

    Just like Theseus from the cave of Minos,
    coming out into the air and carrying out the skin,
    I do not see the horizon — a minus sign
    to the life I have lived.
    This blade is sharper than his sword, and it has cut
    off the best part. So wine
    is taken away from the sober and salt-from the unleavened.
    I want to cry. But there's nothing to cry about.

    Beat the drum about your trust
    in the scissors, in which the fate of matter
    is hidden. Only the amount of loss
    makes a mortal equal to a God.
    (This judgment is worth checking
    off even in the case of a naked couple.)
    Beat the drum while you hold your sticks,
    marching in step with your shadow!

    December 18, 1972

  10. performance

    Chairman of the Council of People's Commissars, Narkompros, Minindel!

    This area is as familiar to me as the outskirts of China!

    This person is familiar to me! An interrogation sign instead of a body.

    Ellipsis of the greatcoat. Instead of the brain – a comma.

    Instead of a throat – a dark evening. Instead of burkal – a division sign.

    So the little man came out, a representative of the population.

    So the citizen came out,

    reaching out of his pants.

    “How much is that radiola?”

    “Who is Savonarola?”

    “Probably shortened.”

    “Where's the toilet, I'm sorry?”

    Enter Pushkin in a flying helmet, a cigarette in his thin fingers.

    In an open field, an ambulance with a lone passenger rushes by.

    And sliced obliquely, like Poltava, wheels

    with the fat dug out under the Gdov finger of the switchman

    enliven the tablecloth of snow, half-stops and forks

    dousing the contents of an overturned bottle.

    Hiding in your lair

    wolves howl “E-my”.

    “Life is like a lottery.”

    “Married a Jew.”

    “We've driven the country to the limit.”

    “Give me a chervonets until payday.”

    Enter Gogol in a capless cap, next to him –


    In the grocery store-the cat did not cry; rats roam,

    grocery stores.

    Hiding a hard horn in a doodle, someone in trousers

    from ram

    turns into a tyrant on the podium of the mausoleum.

    Say the dashing people inside, disappointed

    at the end, like a fish on a platter, the corpse lies


    OK, having lost your speech,

    Stand up with a rifle and guard the coffin.

    “Don't look me in the eye, virgo:

    you'll still go to the left.”

    “Pop had a dog.”

    “Both died of cancer.”

    Enter Leo Tolstoy in pyjamas, Clear Weather everywhere


    (There are parubki wandering around with knives, and there is a smell of chypre

    with the Komsomol.)

    He is the forerunner of Tarzan: samopiskaia –

    How's liana,

    Cannonballs fly back and forth over the French coast.

    a palisade.

    Xie is a great son of Russia, even if it is the ruling class!

    A husband whose great-grandchildren are barefoot, too, rarely see meat.

    Chudo-yudo: the Gentle Count

    Turned into a bookcase!

    “Got her used to blowjobs.”

    “What's all the noise, but there's no fight?”

    “Wing your last words.”

    “Who's the last one? I'm right behind you.”

    Enter a couple of Alexandrovs, escorted by Nikolasha.

    They say “What a mess” or “Sweet jam”.

    Bunks roam Europe in a vain search for parasha,

    bumping into shy rednecks everywhere.

    Reflecting on the pier, the Aurora floats on the waves,

    to blurt out at the beginning of continuous terror.

    Oh, you, the fate of the ship:

    If you say “fire!” they'll say”fuck!”

    “Married her.”

    “I'll give you cancer anyway.”

    “Oh, Tsushima-Hiroshima!

    Life is absolutely unbearable.”

    Enter Herzen and Ogareff, sparrows twittering

    in the groves.

    Which sounds at the moment of girth like an adverb of a foreign land.

    The best view of this city is if you sit down

    in the bomber.

    Look-swollen, like cotton wool from immodest


    multiplying without reason, the clouds cling to the architecture.

    The Kremlin looms like a zone; they say it's in miniature.

    The wind is whistling. Bittern screams.

    A woodpecker knocks a crow.

    “They say the Plenum has opened.”

    “Hit her between the eyes with a log.”

    “Over the Arab peace hut

    the parkhaty Jew flies proudly.”

    Enter Stalin with Dzhugashvili, and between them there is a woman.


    Quickly aim at each other, click on the dog,

    and a smoking pipe… So, according to the director's thoughts,

    and the Father of Nations died, who smoked a pack a day.

    And there are ridges of the Caucasus as in the guard of honor.

    Napareuli bursts out of the brown eye.

    Kunak friend sticks his fang in

    in the half-eaten shish kebab.

    “Have you watched Dersu Uzala?”

    “I didn't tell you everything.”

    “If you're a chuchmek, you believe in the Buddha.”

    “Will you be a bitch?”

    Enters shouting Abroad, with a forbidden name.

    the hemisphere

    and with the horizon sticking out of his pocket, which is vulgar.

    Calls Yermolai Frederick or Charles,

    He finds fault with the law, gets angry about the fees,

    exclaiming: “How do you live!” And confused by the gloss of the flesh

    Raphael and Buanarotti – not a damn thing on the back.

    Proletarians of all countries

    They march to the restaurant.

    “You're like a Yankee in these closets.”

    “I broke it while drinking.”

    “I was a simple worker all my life.”

    “We all jerk off, by the way.”

    Enter Thoughts About The Future, in tunics

    khaki colors.

    They bring in an atomic bomb with a ballistic projectile.

    They dance and dance: “We are bully warriors!

    A Russian and a German will lie down next to each other; for example,

    near Stalingrad”.

    And, like widowed Matryons, cyclotrons howl hollowly.

    Crows are cawing loudly in the Ministry of Defense.

    You enter the bedroom – these are the ones on the wall.:

    on the pillow – orders.

    “Where there's an egg, there's a frying pan.”

    “They say that vodka is coming soon

    it will be in rubles again.”

    “Mom, I don't like my dad.”

    An Orthodox man comes in and says, “Now I am a Christian.” –


    I have a Firebird in my soul and a longing for the sovereign.

    Soon Igor will return to enjoy Yaroslavna.

    Let me cross myself, or I'll punch you in the face.”

    Worse than spoilage and deprivation – thoughts of Western contagion.

    Sing, accordion, drowning out the sax-fiend


    And they kiss the image

    with the cry of a sawn-off shotgun victim…

    “I'll have a director's steak.”

    “Haulers in Severomorsk

    pull the towline cruiser,

    emaciated from radiation sickness.”

    Enter Thoughts Of The Past, all dressed haphazardly,

    with a preference for blackburns. On the classic page

    in Latin

    and they say in a low voice in Russian:: “Everything is gone,

    a) foxtrot under the lampshade, black and white shrines;

    b) caviar, stellate sturgeon, gito; c) krasavitsyny beli.

    But – not enough alphabet. And the baby in the cradle,

    hearing “bayushki-bayu”,

    satisfy: “holy shit!””.

    “I put my hand in the shahnu, getting acquainted.”

    “I'll take a swing and go to Sochi.” “Crossbreed

    white blood cell with anthracite

    It's called Cocytus.”

    Enter the pioneers in formation, some with a plywood model,

    who – with manually written content

    a denunciation.

    From the other world, like chimeras, executioners-pensioners

    they nod approvingly to them, perky and snub-nosed,

    that they turn on the “Russian ballroom” and run into the hut

    to tyata

    kick your father-in-law out of the room where they were made,


    What can you do? Young people.

    You can't strangle me, you can't kill me.

    “I spat in my soup to hide my annoyance.”

    “I'm not going to shit with him.”

    “And mine is like that Madonna,

    he doesn't want to be without a motherfucker.”

    Enter a swan with its reflection in a round mirror,

    in which

    platoon of birches goes squat, the first violin writhing


    An ardent master with a fiery imagination

    a grenadier,

    only a timid tenner, tearing the velvet of the box with his claws.

    It's raining. The dog barks. I'm hanging off the stove, slanting trash

    with a bare ass, she harasses a disabled person, biting a nail:

    “A disabled person, but a disabled person.

    My stomach hurts.”

    “Let's go to the coffin before the hour strikes!”

    “Is it a female or a male?”

    “Squabble of the investigation with the cause

    it stops with death.”

    Trash enters shouting,”Enough!” On the cheekbone

    Yandex. Translate.

    The door to the citizen's cave doesn't need sesame.

    Either a great-grandson, or a great-grandfather in the ore bowels of a wheelbarrow


    pouring generous bowels in the suit of crystal

    with tears.

    And beyond the mortal line, flooded with moonlight,

    the jaw with a gold fix glistens with permafrost.

    Know how long you've lived

    those who laid down their heads.

    “I have a hut, but I'm too lazy to drag myself along.”

    “I'm not a fucking crane operator.”

    “Life started as a habit

    used to be chickens and eggs.”

    We filled the entire stage! It remains to climb the wall!

    Fly a falcon under the dome! Get shorter

    in ascaris!

    Or all, including dolls, tongue whipping foam,

    chorus suddenly copulate to breed a hybrid.

    Bo, space saving, how to mold

    by weight,

    except for the cemetery and the black queue at the checkout?

    Oh, you give the steppe space

    no chain reaction!

    “Give me time without a sentence!”

    “Who shouts,' Stop the thief!'? “

    “I was drawing a dick in my notebook.”

    “Let me go, for Christ's sake.”

    Enter Evening in the Present, the devil's house in the middle of nowhere.

    The tablecloth argues with the curtain in the sense of appearance

    interior items.

    Excluding the heartbeat – this babble I'm in quotation marks –

    the feeling that Lobachevsky has been subtracted

    out of space.

    The murmur of leaves the color of money, a mosquito-like steady buzzer.

    The eye can't zoom six-by-nine.,

    who died,

    who sprouted thick grass.

    However, this is not the first time.

    “Love makes children.

    You're alone in the world now.

    Do you remember the song that used to happen,

    was I humming in the dark?

    This is a cat, this is a mouse.

    This is a camp, this is a tower.

    This is a quiet time

    killing Mom and Dad.”

  11. Poems about accepting the world�

    All this was, was.

    All this was burning us up.

    It all rained and beat,

    it jerked and shook,

    and it took away my strength,

    and dragged to the grave,

    and dragged on pedestals,

    and then it was overthrown,

    and then-it forgot,

    and then it called

    in search of different truths,

    to get completely lost

    in the liquid bushes of ambition,

    in the wild mud of prostration,

    associations and concepts

    and-just among the emotions.

    But we learned how to fight

    and learned to bask

    by the hidden sun

    and get to the ground

    no pilots, no flying directions,

    but-the main thing – do not repeat yourself.

    We like consistency.

    We like fat creases

    on our mother's neck,

    and also – our apartment,

    which is too small

    for the inhabitants of the temple.

    We like to break up.

    We like to make ears of corn.

    We like the rustle of chintz

    and the rumble of prominence,

    and, in general, the planet is ours,

    looking like a rookie,

    sweating on the march.

  12. Here on earth,

    Where I fell into fervor, then into heresy,

    Where I lived, basking in other people's memories,

    like a mouse in the ashes,

    where is the mouse worse

    glodal petit native dictionary,

    you're a stranger, where, thanks to

    To you, I look upon myself from above,

    no longer in anyone

    without seeing the place where the verb is

    I could have touched it without using my throat,

    choking on a nod

    sonorous carrion, saliva

    kropya mouths instead of kastalskaya moisture,

    leaning the Leaning Tower of Pisa to the paper

    in the dark of night,

    your gift to you

    I return it-I didn't bury it, I didn't drink it;

    and, if the soul had a profile,

    You b saw it,

    like her

    just a cast of a sad gift,

    that she no longer possessed anything,

    That I'm talking to you along with him.

    I won't burn it

    you with a verb, a confession, a request,

    cursed questions — that smallpox,

    which one we're talking about

    Almost from the shroud

    infected – who knows? -“isn't it you;

    a reliable, that is, way to protect yourself from pain

    you're deleted.

    I won't wait

    Your answers, Angel, because

    such a poorly represented face,

    like yours, to match,

    It should only be

    the silence is so vast that the echo of

    there will be no bursts of laughter in it,

    No cry of”Hear!”

    This is for me

    and blazit hearing, accustomed to discord,

    and makes it easier to talk to you

    in private.

    To the Ark chick,

    without returning, it proves that

    all faith is nothing more than mail

    one way.

    See how, nag

    And sire, I am angry with the Lord, and this

    one thing will save you from answering.

    But this is a confirmation and a sign,

    what's in poverty

    those who drag out their days will not be afraid of theft,

    what I put on the idea of camouflage.

    There, on the cross,

    I will not cry out: “Why did you leave me?!”

    I won't turn myself into the good news!

    Because pain is not a violation of the rules:

    There is suffering

    ability of bodies,

    and man is a pain-seeker.

    But whether he doesn't know his own, or

    its limit.

    Conversation with the Celestial, 1970 (excerpt)

  13. I was entering a cage instead of a wild animal,

    He burned out his term and nickname with a nail in the barracks,

    Lived by the sea, played roulette,

    I dined with the devil knows who in a tailcoat.

    From the height of the glacier I could see half the world,

    Three times he sank, twice he was cut open.

    I abandoned the country that nursed me.

    Those who forget me can make up a city.

    I loitered on the steppes that remembered the Hun's screams,

    I put on what was becoming fashionable all over again,

    Sowed rye, covered the threshing floor with black roofing

    And I didn't just drink dry water.

    I let the blued pupil of the convoy into my dreams,

    He ate the bread of exile, leaving no crusts.

    He let his ligaments make all the sounds but howls;

    He lowered his voice to a whisper. I'm forty now.

    What can you tell me about life? Which turned out to be long.

    Only with grief do I feel solidarity.

    But I haven't had my mouth filled with clay yet,

    Only gratitude will be heard from it.

  14. I really like his work “Hills”. It gives me the creeps when I read it or listen to it recorded. When I first read it, it impressed me, left a certain impression, but even now, although I know it by heart, when reading it, I still have the same emotions and feelings, as if I was reading it for the first time

  15. From tears distilled by the pupil,

    My larynx is washing, out

    not allowed even there, under the cerebellum,

    formed an icy puddle,

    Out of the pipe-stained night,

    superior to a man's whim,

    from the blood so tainted by you,

    -“and all the more certain – I'm creating your ghost,

    And I, like a dog, do not take my eyes off

    from an intersection where there are multiple voices

    the brakes are barking furiously,

    When the wheels hit the crowd

    trolleybuses when running a red light

    runs your ghost, the fear of which

    it is rather inherent in stalling engines,

    than drivers. And if this is nonsense,

    “my nonsense, then-squeeze your temples.

    But the heavy delirium of the night is continuous

    an alarm clock, a rumbling tram,

    a huge city tearing to pieces,

    like a white sheet that says goodbye.

    But by destroying the address on the envelope,

    you enter the house whose rooms are stripped

    oblivion shears, and the thought of death

    looking for shelter in a fading mind

    feels like a random inhabitant

    Someone else's apartment with your fingers in the dark

    the light switch fumbles on the walls in fear.


  16. No country, no churchyard

    I don't want to choose.

    To Vasilyevsky Island

    I will come to die.

    Your facade is dark blue

    I can't find it in the dark.

    between the faded lines

    I'll fall on the asphalt.

    And the soul, relentlessly

    hurrying into the darkness,

    it will flash over the bridges

    in the Petrograd smoke,

    and April drizzle,

    there's a snowball on the back of your head,

    And I'll hear a voice:

    • Good-bye, my friend.

    And I'll see two lives

    far across the river,

    to the indifferent fatherland

    pressing her cheek.

    • like little sisters

    from unlived years,

    running out to the island,

    they wave after the boy.

  17. Song of innocence, aka-experience / like everything. Mostly, probably, experience: I will write only 4 lines, but, again, I like everything: We are afraid of death, posthumous execution. /

    We are familiar with the subject of fear in life: /

    emptiness is more likely and worse than hell. /

    We don't know who to say “don't”to.

  18. The Pilgrims

    Past the lists, temples,

    Past temples and bars,

    Past posh cemeteries,

    Past the big bazaars,

    Peace and sorrow by,

    Past Mecca and Rome,

    There are pilgrims walking on the ground.

    Crippled are they, the hunchbacks,

    Hungry, half-dressed,

    Their eyes are full of sunset, their hearts are full of dawn.

    The deserts sing behind them,

    Lightning flashes break out,

    The stars rise above them,

    And the birds call hoarsely to them:

    That the world will remain the same,

    Yes, it will remain the same,

    Dazzling snow

    And doubtfully gentle,

    The world will remain a lie,

    The world will remain eternal,

    Maybe comprehensible,

    But still infinite.

    And, therefore, there will be no sense

    From faith in yourself and in God.

    And, therefore, there are only

    Illusion and the road.

    And be above ground sunsets,

    And be above ground by the dawns.

    Fertilize it for the soldiers.

    Approve it to the poets.

  19. Don't leave the room, don't make a mistake.

    Why do you need the Sun if you smoke Popcorn?

    Outside the door, everything is meaningless, especially the cry of happiness.

    Just go to the bathroom and come right back.

    Oh, don't leave the room, don't call the engine.

    Because the space is made out of a corridor

    and ends with a counter. And if it comes in alive

    milka, open your mouth, kick me out without undressing me.

    Don't leave the room; consider yourself blown away.

    What is more interesting in the world of a wall and a chair?

    Why go out from where you will return in the evening

    the same person you were, and even more so, crippled?

    Oh, don't leave the room. Dance, catch, bossanova

    in a coat on the naked body, in shoes on bare feet.

    The hallway smells of cabbage and ski ointment.

    You have written many letters; one more will be superfluous.

    Don't leave the room. Oh, let only the room

    guesses what you look like. And generally incognito

    ergo sum, as the substance in our hearts noticed.

    Don't leave the room! On the street, tea, not France.

    Don't be a fool! Be what others weren't.

    Don't leave the room! That is, give free rein to the furniture,

    merge your face with the wallpaper. Lock yourself in and barricade yourself

    protection from chronos, cosmos, eros, race, virus

  20. I've always said that fate is a game.
    What do we need fish for if we have caviar?
    That the Gothic style will win as a school,
    as the ability to stick around without getting pricked.
    I'm sitting by the window. There is an aspen tree outside the window.
    I loved a few. However-strongly.

    I thought the forest was only part of the log.
    That why the whole virgin, since there is a knee.
    That, tired of the dust raised by the century,
    the Russian eye will rest on the Estonian spire.
    I'm sitting by the window. I washed the dishes.
    I was happy here, and I won't be again.

    I wrote that in the light bulb – the horror of the floor.
    That love, as an act, is verbless.
    What Euclid did not know, that when a thing descends to a cone,
    it becomes not zero, but Chronos.
    I'm sitting by the window. I remember my youth.
    Sometimes I smile, sometimes I spit.

    I said that the leaf destroys the bud.
    And that the seed, when it falls into bad soil,
    does not escape; that the meadow with a glade
    is an example of manual labor, given in Nature.
    I sit by the window, hugging my knees,
    in the company of my own heavy shadow.

    My song was devoid of motive,
    but it could not be sung in unison. It is no wonder
    no one puts their feet on my shoulders as a reward for such speeches.
    I sit at the window in the dark,
    the sea rattling like an ambulance behind the wavy curtain.

    A citizen of a second-class era, I proudly
    recognize my best thoughts as second-class goods
    , and
    I give them to the days to come as an experience of fighting suffocation.
    I sit in the dark. And it's no worse
    in the room than the darkness outside.

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