The artist writes with a brush on the writer's canvas what he writes on paper: about the upcoming nuclear war, about the death of a prisoner in a sarcophagus, about the suicide of thousands of people, about the atrocities of a treacherous tyrant, about the tears of our mothers, about the fate of a veteran. About the crisis that is happening in the country, about the disabled and homeless children, about the government sitting in the Kremlin, about the boundless emptiness in the Kazakh steppes, about drug addiction and drunkenness in cities, about the race of leaders for the presidency, about poverty, about human rights, about paid student education. About the increase in the Price of housing and utilities, bread, travel, gasoline, housing, medicines, avian flu, livestock deaths, and the deterioration of agriculture. About new fines from the traffic police, about the crash of the liner in Samara, about the all-Russian unified state exam, about the holiday that will be in Yamal. About bureaucrats in official positions, about the fact that there is no money in the state budget, about prisoners in St. Petersburg crosses, about the uselessness of the monastic brotherhood. That everything is already decided, that the Lord himself will be in power, he will reveal the secret of his name to you, the name of the Lord is called.... alas, paint was spilled.
The artist spoiled this story, the writer did not finish the works, all because the poet created them, which means that he is the Lord of this creation and has the right to decide where and when it is more convenient for him to put commas. He may not finish until the end, or he may burn it if the poems are bad.
In the junkyard of creative writing, in the rusting details of old prose, in the spare parts of rhymes of an unknown nature, talent died among the wreckage of words. A literal closed chain, interrupting the usual movement - broke up and only I, one is now left, but continues to move and sing. Everything will return to normal again from new links the old system of poems strange theorem and puzzles solid track.
The iron curtain rose to reveal the scene of souls of strangers. The theater seemed to be a pain for the newfound others. Where the first act is the second act, the game is duplicitous, merciless, and complex. Where gestures-passes and moves are simple... Improvisation, in the game of Actresses is visible. Here the scenery changes instantly, like feelings of hatred, joy, LOVE, and colors change color gradually, shimmering in rainbow blood.
The fisherman of poetry – true servant of the Muse, goes - holding in his teeth the ropes of words, dragging the submarine, where, having closed the locks, the Quartet plays the songs of sailors. Where the snow and the lion, in the desert of sober thought, among the swamp of drowning phrases, above the door of sound, in the air hovered, peering into the reflection of blue eyes. Soars the eagle, in airless space like a hawk - shining heights, carelessness, hiding in a good-natured look, in order to reach sky-high heights.
Snake glasses will close the hood and time to take stock of the year. You have become wiser... a pawn, a Queen and a Bishop are preparing for a new campaign. From cell to cell, moving forward, removing black pieces from the Board. With a knight, you will close the oxygen to the opponent and remove the defensive rounds. In the final games it will not be so easy, the beginning was hard and treacherous. It will be hard to play blind, but you are a grandmaster, so the chances are equal.
And you, caught in the touch of his captivity, in the embrace of the sound of the hands of his creations, shouted - well, play my Chopin, not doubting that he was a genius. And he stepped on the keys carelessly, looking for oblivion in the gossip of notes, everyone was indignant - it is impossible that someone played better than Mozart. Was playing easily, playing relaxed, which made everyone go crazy, it is so beautiful and exceptional, it was a wonderful game.
Without a goal, meaning and support, it is difficult to live, and the blade of a knife breeds the soul, even if I break the evidence given to you, but I will not love anyone so much. But ignorance of the subject saved my life, the movement of thoughts in my head turned me over, my consciousness turned from the wrong path and entered a new current. Where the solo is formed into a duet, surrealism has United the unfortunate - in spirit, so that the flutes sound a new sound when the artist and poet create.
On a worn notebook page, on a page stained with blood. I wrote – ‘ poems about you’ for you I wrote, with love. I put my soul into the lines, tried to write, bending over pen and paper, I worked at night, did not go to bed, did not sleep, all my light admiring you. I'm certainly not Pushkin, not FET, not Tolstoy, not Blok, not Yesenin, not Tyutchev, I'm an unknown poet from another planet. One of the best. I'm the best, I'm the best.
A vinaigrette of thoughts and portraits creates in the minds of poets plots for images of poems from an unusual mixture of words. Where the rhyming interweaving shows people their creation, where every line blows in summer, grass, flowers and dawn Shine and Shine poems, carrying a part of their soul, because all this was difficult to give, their pen and blood was written. So that you can see, read, feel, and celebrate the fruits of their creative efforts by memorizing several surnames, such as Pushkin, Blok, Tolstoy, Yesenin, FET, and konevskoy.
The sensitivity of the hands touches the moisture of the body, sliding fingers down deep, under cloying tenderness of affection burns system, in the madness of mind control will not return. Lips merge, mingling in a glass of languor, an explosion of the smell of sweat filled the space with itself, in the movement of the life of seeds there are offspring, and memories in the shower washes away with water. And only the fragrance of humanity can remind you of the scenes that were just created a minute ago, as two actors playing, tried to perform, the connection of sexual relations, love without barriers.
It can be difficult to control yourself, and your thoughts tear your body apart, words literally burst out of your mouth, you grab the pen with your hand. You juggle words between stanzas and keep the style and rhyme, trying, over each line you work, bending, as little as possible to break, trying bustards. But now the poem is almost finished, it remains only to add a line so that the reader can contemplate and read, another of your poems.
You didn't knock on my door, you entered without permission, without asking, I'm waiting for an answer from you to two questions – what should I do now?
What to do – be yourself, how to be – take my arms and dissolve in the flow of happiness, and plunge into eternal peace.
But what's the catch – tell me, what's the real purpose of this visit? You claim that the door is open... only one thing is not clear only where?
Well, here you are again asking a question, and, you know, I'm tired of it. If you want to know the answer, then let's get to work, here's a knife, a noose, here's copper sulfate. And the door will appear before you, in the very you from the subconscious and not a minute of waiting, and not a second for a simple one. Well, what are you waiting for, come in, but give up all desires, feelings, fears, and compassion and you will fall into the flow of love.
As Mozart beats the piano in ecstasy, and as Vivaldi tears the violin with his bow, so I rhyme with words, bending over paper and pen. And even if I am not Akhmatova, Tyutchev, Pushkin, Yesenin, or Blok, and my poems, alas, are no better, I am still not far from poetry.
Your art of dreaming is amazing, you see dreams, remembering everything by heart, sleepless nights just don't happen, so maybe I'm dreaming too? And this world with all its nature is a game of your imagination, a reality separated by freedom, freedom of thought, dreams from nothing. But every dream we have, creating eternity, you closed the circle, closing your eyes, reality, preserving your carelessness, will not change for sure
never.
Empire slaves book trade, magazines, Souvenirs and Newspapers, under the caps of the roofs of Moscow the roof yesterday crossed the parapet and fell into the dungeon transitions, when stations of Saint Petersburg metro, carried trays for waste to seed shops sprouted. So the Emperor, waiting for years, watered the shore of his firstborn with water, sprouts sprang up, shoots began to grow, he did not even dream of such fruits. Now at the stations, at every crossing, the inscription of the first page shines, but it's a pity, all expenses were in vain, all dreams will be broken on a stone.
Not life is a survival game, where every day passes like two and the probability of losing consciousness becomes too high. And the rules of this game are cruel, it is difficult to stay afloat, here the losing players will be swept away by the streams and buried on the sandy shore. After all, it is very difficult to become a winner in the game, it leads a fierce selection, it is simply impossible to taste victory, but you have achieved it, do you feel the furor?
Intertwining branches, we move towards the morning, along the strings of harps, along the network of cobwebs, along the petals flying in the wind, to the reality of everyday routine. But we are still far from reality, we start a new movement, go out through a closed window, without even leaving the room. And continuing the path within ourselves, we break all the boundaries available to us, so that dreams, in reality - embodying themselves, our world turned upside down.
She tried to convict me of treason, to break the Union only with her distrust, but she did not want to listen to me, did not try, but I am unshakable in loyalty. Yes, it's my fault that I opened the door to OLE, Yes, it's my fault that I went to bed next to her, but how could you think that I could cheat on you with her? Well, I'm sorry that I didn't open the door, made you wait, my angel for more than an hour, well, I didn't wait, lay down, fell asleep, got tired and our Cup swayed on the scales of feelings. And jealousy has become harder than relationships, darkened the heart, the mind listens to the eyes, you demand some explanation, which you have full rights to, but you don't want to admit my words, you accuse me of treason and lies, and I try to explain and prove that only you are more important to me. And you keep telling me how we will continue to live, because I trusted you in love, and that now, the end is to forget everything and part, to be like everyone else. I understand, you will survive, how many times this has happened, you will accept, cry and leave, and for me, death, suicide is just left. After all, I can't live slandered by you, if you don't want to believe me, and the words that were given by me – to love to the grave, to be faithful to you. And something trembled in you, a tear fell, and you changed your anger at the mercy, and a smile shone on your face, saying - I'm sorry, we hugged you.
And brother raised his hand to brother, where is Abel, Cain, who is who? Who accepted sin? Who gave their soul? Two characters, who's who? After all, both have equal chances, it's a sin to part with the body, it's a pity the mechanisms are faulty, well, you'll have to choose.
The days are numbered, he wrote in the last line, the poet was finishing his next verse, and at this time in the room next to a friend in the soul climbs sexual. Climbs - bursts, tears her apart, she's body writhing like a snake, screams and moans about her misfortune and does not blame herself for anything. And he knew that sooner or later something would happen that everyone was afraid of, what he said, and so seriously proving in particular to you. That life is a dream, but a dream is unpredictable, that today is the same as yesterday, the aspect of reality, alas, is indescribable and there is love and beauty in it.
You are a drop in the ocean of my dreams, a minute to save yourself from being shot. You are a petal among a thousand flowers, a Princess or even a Queen. You are my air that I breathe, my eyes to see this light. You are my leisure, you are my rest. You are my sun, giving me the dawn. You are my life and the feeling of freedom, my six senses, of course - the soul, with you I forget all adversity. You are my angel, you are my only one.
That to me a flood and a volcanic eruption, Armageddon or a meteor shower is nothing, in comparison with the fact that Svetlana will change her love for hatred and anger. That to me the embrace of my father's mother, as well as a dream or at least a life in Paradise, is nothing compared to when she – says three words – I love you.
I will soon wipe you off the face of the earth and destroy your wretched planet, you are not worthy to call yourself people and you have nothing to enjoy the light. To the light of the star that you call the sun to its radiance, to the warmth of its rays, you are all doomed, you will all die, but it is a pity that only, in my poetry. Yes, only in the lines of my verse, there is a prophecy, a curse, you will all die – I hope forever, this is my last spell.
You are children of trends, logos, and companies. Text of the generation of MTV and TV series, covered their faces behind the screen screens, you are prisoners of 15 channels. You are disabled remote control, slaves of advertising sex by SMS, bring progress to stupefaction, so that the degradation process starts.
Everything will be fine in the future, if we are together with you, even in my thoughts, now to leave, when there is a person like this. What will support you in a difficult moment, light dispersing the pitch darkness, fall, will not give you despondency and boredom, as you like, will preserve the Union and marriage. Than I Express my gratitude to him and once again I will repeat two hundred times, I adore you my angel, only you, I love you alone. And believe me, if something happens, we will fight, swear and shout, then this will not happen again, that we will have to doubt and cry.
Owners put the sword in the scabbard, remove your fingers from the trigger of the rifle. Save your buckshot for the wolves, and don't touch us, we are your guests.
The cruel world is cruel, and nature is merciless. You are an Emir for people, no one for God.
The consciousness of the Muse requires a rib, a little time, effort and patience, as well as the inspiration inherent in God, and of course the hands of his warmth.
O light source of inspiration - good love identification, your rays - piercing the darkness, showing beauty to the eyes under the blue-blue sky, Shine with a Golden luster, give me happiness and warmth, it becomes easy for the soul that I want to sing falsetto, like a bird to fly high, reach the cloud tops and fall like a stone among the plains. And to be mourned by you - o light – o - my beautiful friend.
The hand turns the millstone - to grind, trying, time and epoch. The last events of the centuries, the country going up the scaffold.
As part of the team of initiates to the heights of power, the Bratva moves, over the heads, over the corpses of subordinates – striving to get up among other shit. Hiding behind the mask of virtue, giving out lies for the truth, they try to pick up everything in their hands, and in the form of a ransom, they throw a copper penny. But in this world
everything is unstable, even if you hold the wheel now - and everything is according to plan, clearly, perfectly, but the system will fail, and everyone will go to the basement. Then let's see how you sing, how you run, covering your ass. After all, the same shit bitches will come out to try to get everything back. Yes, but there are no chances left, all because of greed and stupidity, and why do you need all this shit? If you don't value your own people.
What is left to me of pain of suffering, loneliness, sadness and longing, links of a broken chain of trials, death, grave, tombstone slab? Or try to change everything, reforge the old links, forget the pain, make peace and take up, the chain is tighter, stronger to link? Or give up on everything, walk away with your sleeves down, run away from problems, get scared? That the path is either no or Yes. If there is uncertainty, suffering, and if so, what lies ahead? Either conscience is a pain of remorse, or life is for the salvation of the soul.
You were as unapproachable as Ishmael, as inaccessible and cold as the peak of Mont Blanc, the soldiers gave up, exhausted, and the climbers assured – hopeless. But what do I see – you surrendered to the enemy, and on your top the banner is hoisted, what kind of Kutuzov-climber took the height, who became bothered by your mercy? Under whose siege did you throw out the flag, whose alpenstock did you touch, who is this unknown, cunning enemy? Only the poet smiled without resentment.
In the depot the night of the conductor sleeping in the car, drivers rails versha pray your namaz, mechanics are busy in the morning already on the brew, head banging of wheels, makes a bypass for the first time. With the creaking of a monotonous clock, morning is approaching, mechanics are looking for glasses to meet the sunrise, the light of lampposts illuminates the paths, but it is cloudy, the chief of the rattling wheels makes a second detour.
The poet will die, they will cry and bury him, well, they will remember him for his repose, they will put up a monument, lay flowers, they will carve out words in granite, they say he was like this. I worked here, lived in my own worries, wrote poems, loved her alone, tried to tell her in my lines that at twenty – three I would die, die, die. She did not believe, joked, laughed, repeated this nonsense and this nonsense, seriously poems, and did not take it, well, writes a fool, all the less harm. And he wrote prophecies treatises, all it tried to prove something, spending energy reserves, to in the world of his soul its inscribe. Where there were quarrels and misunderstandings that arose between them again and again, where there was pain, separation and suffering, where there was loyalty, feelings and love. Where every day, like a meat grinder, I tried to grind them all, killing all the best, closing in an apartment booth to each other
they devoured the flesh. To squabble access to oxygen to them closed, to diverge they on different sides, to about joint life forgot – an alcoholic and an artist-addict. But time passed, adversity was forgotten, harmony reigns again in the relationship, spitting, in the face and soul stopped, fate itself, they should be together. Life begins with them, as with the first meeting, when the fire of passion burned in their hearts, when they laughed like little children, when they flew in the clouds in love. But as if a thunderbolt struck from the sky and she again did not care about him, the poet died, the coffin lid closed, and she could not understand him.
Let the sky cry with raindrops, let the birds not chirp at dawn, you know that at this time for you, masterpieces are created on the planet. To brighten up the life of the oppression of existence, fill the soul with light and warmth, I write messages for you in poems, filling them with love and kindness. To be in joy, rain and bad weather, that instead of birds, the phone chirps, so people, gifted from God, turn your reality into a dream.
The day ended so much the worse for me, even though the night of separation is reduced to minutes, but sleep is not a joy when you are not there, and waking up is like hell. I will wish you sweet dreams and that the night does not seem like hell, I will tear the night cover with a poem, so that I can somehow be near you.
When the sun is setting, the familiar sound of footsteps is heard painfully, and you are walking along the passage, spreading the fragrance of flowers. And in the smell of flower bacchanals, the only one that is distinguishable, your smell, women, desires, it is always unique for me. And I want my friend to breathe you, see you and live with you, appeared to me as a Goddess not on earth, so that together with God I can share joy.
Really fallen legions in the siege, and the Emperor of the phrases that captured his poems presented to the award and them, skreiv dark dirty walls, on the roof of the castle hoisted the banner of triumph and to the cheers of the crowd, head over to his you sword bared, interrupted life, the movement of the tears.
I set the style, I set the fashion of the intelligentsia, the people. From the silence came up with sounds, you tools, giving in your hands. Created a melody of art, create, invest feelings. I have taught you the craft, made it easier for you to work, and created a religion on the word, so that you can live without knowing about grief. But you, having diluted the world with shit, turned the planet into a toilet, are mired in wars, in poverty, in lies, calling out to Satan. Now you are drowning in blood, forgetting about the word, about love.
Where the arrows move only accelerates time, where the brightness of colors loses its color, where the human body is a seed, where the question cannot be answered. There sounds and words will not be heard, there the taste and smell can not be felt, there, in the air, the movement is suspended, there the speed of light can be felt. But what is it - life in another universe, the underwater world, or the earth's firmament? Whatever you call it – hell, heaven, the abyss, but it's death, alas, but it's death.
We are the caretakers of Newspapers, books and magazines, we start work at seven in the morning, for the poor in spirit and the Diaspora of railway stations we open the gates of hell. We watch as ignorance and stupidity waste time, forgetting about the price of it, as poverty, dementia and avarice, stand with their eyes and mouths open in thought. But their trouble is the usual ignorance of what they need, what they want, probably that thoughtless standing, will make their brains think.
All those who long for peace and bliss, all those who seek refuge in themselves, who strive to achieve perfection, there is hardly a place on Earth. They like the depths of the ocean, the silence of deserts and the noise of forests, they like Nirvana, silence, solitude, the world of dreams. And they do not need to keep track of minutes, weeks, months, years, their indifference is like sweet torment they are creators like publicans.
There is a gap in the wall of brickwork, St. Petersburg is like a construction site, but there is no material as usual, only a pallet of bricks remains, and why? Yes, just a thief-foreman, and a civil engineer is the same slave, in the morning trying to dilute the solution, at least from what, but to build a fence, and so protect yourself from theft, but this task is not easy. After all, before you breed something! To then build something, you must first get out of the binge, clear the land of shit and humus, restore order, remove all the garbage, and then dilute the solution and build a fence while there is at least some material left, but the thief-foreman has already sold the pallet and will not save the fence from theft-this is Russia, a hopeless country. Even if you find a million builders and build a hundred fences in a night, you will still find a gap in the wall, and even if the thief is a foreman in prison, another foreman will come and steal building materials as well. While the Builder-engineer was on a binge, all because he received money for the fact that the fence was erected overnight, but now there is nothing to dilute the solution, and there is nothing to patch the gap in the wall, as they stole, so they will steal and finish the verse, it is unlikely that I can, as long as there is theft in Russia.
I came up with a planet, animals, people - this is the fruit of my sick consciousness - it's all a world of fantasies, crazy ideas, tired, tired of its contemplation. All that I created, I will destroy with my own hands, it is better to let emptiness, silence and peace. God's loneliness can last for centuries, he will create a different world at any second.
I feel like the connection is breaking, the connection of the wires that connect us together, the prophecies of the Egyptian script are losing their meaning in an electronic song. Words are frozen in stone tombs, among embalmed feelings, the shadow of a scarab, death on our faces, in the graves of our own arts. Where the Pharaoh burns manuscripts, other people's works and poems, the Oracle threw the reins of the chariot, forgetting how to explain the meaning of dreams. Where the priestess of the body after the ritual, at the altar, will give herself up to the knife, when the judge falls at the pedestal at the feet of the slaves and their hard work. Then the sand will cover the pyramids, the sarcophagus will fall to the ground from the sky, all past grievances will be forgotten and will sink into the abyss, into the fiery ravine.
The words of other people's works are written by his hand, not from the heart, out of motives to separate you from me. He wanted to surprise me with a sonnet. You my friend charm, after all called themselves poet, now trying to prove, steals words, other people's rhymes, issuing for own thoughts, you trying to deceive and plagiarism its push someone else's issuing for its, but this is not all. They talk about love, eyes filled with longing, called death, peace of mind, ready for anything, just to be with you, do not believe him, please, I pray, you know, I love you.
I am the God of poetry, the Creator, the Creator of the world. The world of crazy thoughts and ideas, where in the waves of fleeting ether I comprehend the meaning, the essence of things. But I have not fallen into the madness of pride and megalomania is not sick, I just exist and create. And this is already in principle satisfied, I hated, and now I love.
I: God, the Lord, the Creator, the Creator of the world, you people are not worthy to live and the waves of the ether, you miserable mortals can not reach. But I did not fall into the madness of pride, and megalomania is not sick, I just exist and create, and this is basically satisfied, I hated, and now I love.
Do you remember the fire that burned in your parents ' house? Do you remember that night when passion burned hearts? I remember one thing, that I couldn't stay still, I remember one thing, how the bodies intertwined into one.
Morning. The first day of February. He went out, not knowing that you would be left alone in the house that evening. In his dream, he saw those who remained, among them was one who did not know. Why did he always laugh at everyone, why did he forgive everyone's insults? Why, when everyone was talking, did he sit in silence, lost in thought, everyone laughed at him, everyone joked, and he looked at the stars in the sky? He watched through closed eyelids, as the wind-driven leaves, sinking into channels and rivers, left words on the water, from which he formed rhymes, and from rhymes, poems deduced, and his eyes, though sad, but pure, because he loved with his heart and soul.
You are all links of the same chain stretched over the parapet, and the counterbalance to evil is in love, but you do not know about it, and like soldiers on the parade ground, you keep pace and salute the scoundrel, lay flowers on the road. Your fanaticism is prone to madness, blind people who are mired in sins, every second is terminally ill, you will only be dust.
There was a knock. Opening the gates of Paradise, the Apostle Peter was a little surprised! A naked crowd appeared before him, shouting we are going to the Lord. Peter thought about it and scratched his head - said the Lord will come to you himself. Closing the gate with the key, he fell to the bottle, the wine spread over his body like a balm and calmed the key Keeper's excitement, a minute passed - there came an Epiphany, which Peter was incomparably happy and throwing off his usual outfit, smoothed his beard, braided it, put on a wig, another garment and, like the Lord the father, opened the gate and shouted - all to the slaughter. In one second, as the crowd disappeared, Peter left, laughing, sighed wearily, closed the gate, the moral is this. Oh, if you have found your way to the Lord father, go, damn it, one by one, but not as believe me, not in a crowd, the Lord is one, for everyone he is his own.
The full moon rose and the clock struck twelve. Suddenly a fur covered back, and body pain hell twisted, clothes torn to pieces, it beats in convulsions on the floor, and instead of words coming from the mouth of the growling wolf on the damn moon. Like a madman, he rushes around the apartment, not really understanding anything, the mad sound in his ears of playing the lyre, made him jump out of the window. The fog hides the appearance of the beast, and the beast rushes in the dark, through the forest, on the grass, not believing that it will be in the family. Among fellow wolves, watch the full moon, then lie in a ditch, and do not look at the nakedness to hurry home as soon as possible, lie down on the bed to forget sleep, and tomorrow get ready again, run through the woods like a wolf.
Colorless minced raw meat eats a dead cat, his dog sits and howls at the moon, probably better I go, and you stay on to listen to what else he was able to eat while I was talking. The dog died, the meat is rotten, but the cat can't eat, and if you continue, out of stars the sun rose, and the cat with the dog wearily waiting till I finished to write to them to eat, colorless minced raw meat, when he eats dog night howling at the moon, and I go down the street and watching this story, and I'm still a poet and is a great vision I brought to the poem, but the verse will be added then as soon as the meat will eat the cat then devour the rest of this point I will finish the verse, because you can go, who and who will eat.
In this world, cruel morals, lawless people rule the country, driving their people into ditches, beating them with whips. Bicheva the one direction drug abuse, alcoholism, will come in the minds of the enlightenment, and end this bigotry.
I've matured, I've become focused. Although sometimes sullen and silent, even if I choose clothes inaccurately, and not always have a fresh look, because I am a poet a child of a sick nature, my soul and thoughts are in the clouds, you will not feel a drop of the freedom that I draw in poetry.
Thank you for your kindness, for your wisdom, for your patience and affection, with you life is like a fairy tale, but not in a dream, but in reality. You are my joy the light of my eyes and my eternal source of inspiration, I wish you a good mood, more Sunny spring bright days. And never to leave luck, as well as happiness, faith and love, so that every task is solved and passion burns with fire in the chest again.
Worthy of Botticelli's work, worthy of Mozart's divine play, worthy of Machiavelli's pen, you are the perfection of the ideal of beauty. Beautiful as Picasso's creation and as Vivaldi's melody is excellent, unforgettable as Hugo's prose, magnificent among all and incomparable. And there is no picture better on Earth and there is no melody more charming in the world and there is no book more brilliant anywhere than you are my friend on this whole planet.
Like pigs, you dig in the shit, not knowing what you really need, but you shout cheerfully and amicably about the overpriced price. But you keep your discontent to yourself, otherwise the air smells too much of selfishness, your brain is withered and your body is wasting away, not that you are given to rummage, but to live in shit. And I will be honest with you to the end, not only do you dig in the shit and live in it, but you also eat everything else and are not worthy of the best yet.
A baby holding his mother in his arms on his father's bones steps with his feet and does not know human fear, he will protect himself from the blows of fate with his hands. He will hold out his hands and drop them, only the pain will not weaken under them, he will know the condemnation, taste the grief, having tasted, because everyone has become strangers. The cross of solitude will carry with it, where the foot steps, the ashes will lie, and when the sin is redeemed, there will be peace, the long-awaited path in the eternity of songs.
I admire Gainsborough's paintings, his landscapes, and the beauty of the people. I don't consider myself a thief, borrowed for his own ideas, his collages and works... well, a little face has changed, so what is inspiration, when someone is passionately in love and let this paper, and let not your own hand but for you my darling do from the heart and soul.
I am a patriot of my country, I serve the Fatherland regularly and let my grandfathers smack me, because I am a soldier and this is nice. I am a patriot of my country I bend my back at my native factory and let me work for pennies and do not care what is in a dirty robe. I'm a patriot of my country, I keep a tray on the street, then I'm a mover, then I'm a salesman, I jump until my feet turn blue. I am a patriot of my country, and the specialty is a pickpocket, because all professions are important, for which they were taken to the monkey house. I am a patriot of my country I proudly declare it and even in striped pants and even for a long time I'm a patriot of my country!
The peace and sleep in which they were, was broken by a waking nightmare, the fate of the test fell out, the ship began to sink. The sailors raised a panic, the bell rang in the night you at the helm bravely stood up, saying - salvation is ahead. And so, while wandering on the waters, the light of the lighthouse destroyed the darkness, in spite of fate and bad weather, feet stepped on the sand.
Red-green vines of grapes decorated the facades of houses in Bordeaux. On the slopes Coldiretti wandering herd, sheep grass green luck. Chamonix ski capital the beauty of Mont Blanc is famous for it, the Lacubre lighthouse, as a night bird rises above the sea to the sky. The Mejean plateau in the Cevennes Park in the East charms the eye with the origin of the stones, the cozy Etuf waterfall is always noisy and foaming in the stream in France..
When the fog hides the neighborhood, and the air is saturated with humidity swirls, he enters the house, takes off his coat, takes a cigar, smokes and lies down. She lies there and thinks about her feelings, about the beautiful one - the girl who drives you so crazy, in a black vest and a red shirt, who is so shy, beautiful and smart. His heart and soul will be filled with longing, he will get up and go to the piano, take a chord and with his left hand he will play, sing a song. He will sing about the cold of Russia, the desert wind over the dune ridge, praise the Lord and the resurrection of the Messiah, and with sadness and pain he will remember that. The soul filled with inspiration from the heart is troubled in dreams, the rainbow is the most beautiful moment after the rain was in the sky.
I want to howl from loneliness without a woman's affection, without love, life in punishment as a prophecy for years presses on my temples. But the fate of the shackles removed, leaving the light behind, you die in the dream, lying in bed, that his life to start from scratch. Not to repeat the mistakes of the old ones, where he stumbled, flattered and lied, to suffer for the truth from reprisals, the desire to live, so as not to lose. And on the deeds of others, did not close his eyes, so that he found simple moves when the game came to a dead end. So that there were more goals in life, and did not turn off the path, God forbid, I had enough patience to find my love. To love and be loved, what more can you want? But to make him happy, you must first die.
The faces from the glossy magazines smile back at me, and a faint light streams from them, exuding the stench of basements. I'm sick of your eyes smug assholes, I'll parade my way through the bones of a superstar.
I congratulate you on the day of the human rights defender, and I bring to your attention that I respect the employees of law enforcement agencies and join their ranks as a volunteer myself. Without you, there is no escape from cattle and rabble, from drunkenness, murder, threats, theft. You serve honestly for the good of the people, and the country is calm under your control.
These are just pastures for the herd and nothing, alas, can be changed, they wander under the knife to their own detriment for the benefit of the one who will supposedly love. But it is a pity that fools do not cope with the Vice of self-deception, stupidity and lies, then tears will be shed over the prophet who wrote treatises under the verses. Come to your senses, but it will be too late you have not been able to understand one thing, how you live - it is very difficult, goodbye people, I will die.
Here, most people are ill with lack of sleep, they do not know the word day off and are doomed to work underground for the rest of their lives. They honor the rules written by you, but they are unlikely to be followed by anyone, because this is the Bible, but my gospel is written in new words. In it, according to the law, a person is obliged to bend before everyone, become a slave, without the right to vote, why is he so punished? Be a sycophant, an altruist, and a liar. So are they slaves or soldiers? Madmen or geniuses, who knows, who knows, in the grip of work, time are squeezed, I can sympathize with them and sympathize. Oh, if you fell to the share of these torments, well, what can you do, such is the fate, do not fall only to your hands and that you reached the victorious end.
In my chest suddenly something broke, a tear, in impotence rolled down my cheek and a feeling of sadness crept into my soul again, I realized suddenly, you changed me, there is no inspiration in the words of the past, when you meet me, you look timidly into my eyes, your cold lips touch, love lit up and now love has passed. I will not forget the days of our dates, our walks at night under the moon, those impressions, feelings and States, all that we experienced with you. When in the madness of embraces dying, we in a kiss merged our lips and forgetting about everything in the world, we indulged in caresses until the morning, we in the passion of feelings burned ourselves with fire, we were embodied in our own dreams, we lost our heads from each other and woke up somewhere in the clouds.
The heat in my chest is burning, an unbearable hum in my ears fills my heart with pain, death came with a scythe in his hands, what stood at the threshold, come in, do not stand in the doorway and, slamming the lid of the coffin, I will save my memory in verse.
The space of the kitchen and room is empty. Wrapped in gauze, a friend lies at the entrance, crossing the threshold, went out into the street, and my soul was scratching from the indifference that lurked in me, from the compassion that is not alien, asking the question again, do I need to live on earth at all?
You are dissatisfied with the protection of the garden that its beauty can not be protected, I will give up heaven in favor of hell and tomorrow I will come to guard your garden myself. But Morpheus, spreading the net of sleep, already has power over my mind, darkness will detain me in his domain, and by morning the power of his spell weakens.
You remember the rhymes of our words, how we wove them together in a poem over the course of forty verses and a couple of months that we spent in Eden. Where passion and feelings were kindled by creativity, a flame burned in the hearts of our elements with you, and a fountain of love beat in our veins and our banner fluttered in the wind. But the wind has died down, the direction has changed, the fountain has weakened or dried up completely, where are the feelings, passion, fire, where is the inspiration and why are the doors to our Eden closed?
I'll try to get back as soon as possible, and to make your illness go away sooner, I've prepared a souvenir for you - a photo album, a watch, a mouse, and cheese. My souvenir riddle is not simple, but you, my friend, will be surprised when I come home from work and will be happy to break your peace, while you keep your guesses to yourself and get well - treatment in your sleep.
Dawn is breaking on the horizon, the star is shining on the dark blue canvas, and the dim moon gives us light while still illuminating space. And the morning is approaching, the moon passes the posts, here is a change of guards, erasing the night, the star shining in the sky, the sun rises bright. Its rays seek to illuminate the entire celestial Empire and every corner of it, and its collapse can not be prevented, here, at last, the dark dome is destroyed! Utter darkness surrenders in an unequal battle, the light of the sun rejoices, having won the victory, and a new order of divine rays is dictated to us by the military composition. But the darkness is cunning, it is gaining strength, so that closer to night to March while only the army is gathering, but the battle has begun - the sunset is coming. And the battle will continue endlessly, the struggle for power and the sky has no end, and the chain of battles will last forever, but in St. Petersburg the light wins, not the darkness.
They say that he does not love you, that you are holding him by force, that this is only a beautiful dream, but this is the sign of a happy star. They, fools, hiding you, trying to blacken the truth behind lies hiding, trying to separate us. But you do not believe the words of deception, you do not hold me by force, and I love you Svetlana, it's a pity I don't know the truth about them. And I don't understand one thing - why do they need all this, why calls, why words, why such a fuss? Because of what we love, or maybe envy. What fools.
That the heart is pounding so excitedly, the sun is not shining, and the flowers are withered, the birds are silent, the river is not noisy, and the colors have lost their brightness and color? The lips do not remember the joy of a smile, the words are frozen, cold in the chest and the rhyme is created from under the torture, giving birth to new and new poems. So that your illness will pass faster, so that it will Shine again in the dark, I will try to return as soon as possible to you, my angel, Light, only to you.
The flower, the mouse, the light of my eyes! Here is day almost - that on outcome I throw myself in the darkness of nights, to you hug on entry. At the entrance to the garden, in the sanctuary of nature, a hug and flowers of a carpet, carry dear yearning for freedom to the arms of passion, flame and ice. Where in the dance of two mutually loving hearts, sighing, wearily whisper - well, finally.
I will tear apart those who stand between me and half of the song will laugh at the Nightingale and take defeat for success, I will tear apart all. I will tear apart what distrust has exposed our feelings to violence as an art form, and the human body is a canvas I will tear apart everything. I will tear the world apart, may the planet be cursed for the woman whose name of Light will be answered by God, king and Emir I will tear the world apart.
My gentle, affectionate, beloved, my angel, demon, my flower, your unique fragrance is like a breath of air to me. Fill the lungs themselves, nectar quench the thirst, wash morning dew, the Bud will hide, will save my suffering and feelings of hope, faith and love my poems, my art, my image, body, soul, blood. And only the heart will beat for the beauty for the life of the flower, to be reunited together someday and forever.
There is an hour left of our separation, but, my God, what agony it is. An hour of waiting, longing without you and a pity the minutes can not be shortened in any way, to hug and kiss you quickly and disappear into the depths of your eyes, in the arms of your hands to find peace and whisper – well, at last we are with you, we are together, you and I, but it's a pity that the night is shorter than the day.
You are walking along the sea shore in the light of the sun's rays, you are walking along the road to the rock garden to meet a simple young man, whose appearance captivated your clear eyes, your touch drove you crazy, but someone whispers-a boy?! Nonsense, it's just a figment of the imagination. But here you go again into the garden, into the midst of stones and Mimosa flowers, he opens the doors to hell, you go down with him into the passages, into the passages of gloomy dungeons, where the Faun dances, the pipe sings, April descends to the sound of her works. Going further down into the tunnels, pushing aside the night tulle, in the pond of mermaids on a swing meets you in July. And there is no autumn melancholy in hell and there are no torrential rains, temperatures below average and cold winter nights, but if this is a dream a vision that you dream, it seems to you, then my poem is only a part of your thoughts in me and the words I listed are woven into poems invented together with you, because we are a link in the same chain.
The kaleidoscope of events of the past years slowly moves in a circle, the black-and-white color of memories is accompanied by a Bach Fugue. Everything is blurred in the eyes, the colors have faded, the hands, legs, body, head are numb... The last breath of air, heartbeats, screams, seizures and your soul leaves the body. You float, calmly comprehending the speed of thoughts floating freely in the space of different bodies, when you reach the highest form, everything you would like will be here.
I look at the cheerful faces of children doomed to exist, at fathers in the near future and mothers, because they are all waiting for a test. I look at the tired faces of families marred by existence, at fathers with disabilities, sick mothers with a state that has already fallen into insanity. I look at the dead faces of people whose ridiculous existence gave birth to a generation of new children condemned to survive.
In Russia, there are plenty of geniuses, almost every second writer of novels, plays, essays is a Creator, but Leskov is far away. In Russia, there are enough geniuses, often a poet will meet and, having written poems, the sonnet considers itself Pushkin. There are not many geniuses in Russia, probably one in a hundred is worthy to hold a pen and outshine Tolstoy with glory. In Russia, geniuses are dead, long in the grave, and their creations are considered the pride of the country all over the world. In Russia, you and I are geniuses.
Oh, rise from your knees, my Lord, and raise your sword above your head, and let the heads fall from the shoulders of those who doubt that you are our king. Cut them all down be unwavering, so that the great Emperor will ascend to the throne, and every beggar every Gladiator will say – we will give our lives for you, Caesar. And let the cities burn with fire, and the hordes of enemies will bow to your feet. you have the right to laugh at everyone here, because there is a bloody rumor about you.
I know how to cheer myself up. I need to fill someone's face, but what else can I please myself with? You can hang the king's father, or you can sink someone's ship and feed all the captives to the sharks, or use cannons to shoot the city and quarter the survivors, or better yet let a couple of lions out of the cage and remember the thrill of Gladiator fights. When people are torn apart by lions and the remains of flesh are gnawed from the bones, I will be rewarded with a growl and anarchy will be announced.
On the sides lie discarded swords, you can see the treads of boots, everywhere ditches, trenches and ravines stands in the middle of the haystack. Broken branches of a Bush, the grass is crushed traces of a duel clearly on the face, here half an hour ago the guys met, but fortunately nothing happened. Probably, the boys were thinking - why should they risk their lives, others repeat mistakes again and die so senselessly, absurdly.
And the heart will never stop, and will continue to beat as long as it is strong enough. Then you have to go to suicide, well, whoever stopped me? No, I have not heard any words, no condemnation, no shouts like – wait, or change your Outlook on life in a new way look with your eyes. Yes, I didn't hear anything from you, and could you have said anything? And only window, opening I silently went out, you still... I also do not care.
Thunder rolls, sea waves splash, Heyerdahl's boat hits the rocks, the Viking days are long numbered, but Valhalla is reborn from the ashes. Valkyries rush to do business, those who died in battle are resurrected in the temple, and Thor, raising his hammer to the sky, hits the pentagram inscribed on the stone. Lightning flashes in all its glory, One returned from the realm of the dead, but the light fades and an inscription appears on your window – your password and username.
I'll pull down my underwear with my teeth I'll eat it by the neck by the stomach and lower, come to me don't be afraid closer, closer I'll pass on my skill to you. I will teach you the breath of passion, the movements of the cry through the emotions of istom, when you are in thrall to the desires of the power of what is called a phantom, a phantom of illusions and desires of the body that is devoted to your caresses and bliss, I will do everything that you wanted any whim order or dream. I will be gentle with each time better, with each touch of hands and tongue, I will become more sensitive to kisses and hugs, I will lift you to heaven. So that you moan in a blissful fit, tear the skin on your back with your claws, and we merge in a perfect dance, and dissolve in complete darkness, indulging in games full of voluptuousness, giving your lips all the charm of nakedness and reaching the peak of happiness, we remained in the beauty zone. Where silence will break the moan of ecstasy, the game will continue where splashing of the ocean, in the depths of the waves will wash the body moisture and flexibility of your fingers round the camp, skimming the thighs of virgin elastic, with a sensitivity of spray will penetrate into the interior, where simmering volcano wave cool, understanding new feelings, the sense, essence. And continuing to swim in the waves of debauchery, weave the body into a single link, then wrap yourself in the arms of a dressing gown, lie down to smoke and just drink wine. Below, filling the spirit and body force, again to indulge in a passionate fire in bed Sakura where you will be plum, and I you your mind wander, taste your fruit, filled it with moisture, perhaps the insatiable hunger to satisfy, in the end grain I'll stab a sword and the winner of the flower, then pluck. And you will be engulfed by an unknown feeling of pleasant pain sweet taste, and the glass, which was empty, fill to the brim without overflow.
Clear as gold and perfect as diamond, in depth comparable to the ocean, the splendor of your beautiful eyes I admire and admire their deception. Deception that managed to charm, captivate, entangle color with beauty, because I could not avoid the look, so I am near, I am with you. Even if it was hypnosis, here I bow before you, you are perfect, even in the world of dreams I will still always be with you.
You are wasting your time looking at magazines and books, you are not a society – a wild tribe! Who would do such a feat for you? What are you thinking, looking at the shelves? You stand for an hour or two, looking around, like dogs or wolves, with the brain problems, trouble. And you shouldn't shout and swear that I told you the truth to your face, you should cry and laugh out loud because you people are shit. Let the words offend well, don't argue I'm still right, you don't care, I don't care either! I'm leaving, having told you my verse.
Again winter is knocking on my Kingdom, and again the state is covered with snow, covering roads, rivers and bridges, forests, plains, cities and villages.... Everything is frozen and waiting for spring, I go out into the snowy expanses. And step, feet breaking the crust I run, and speed dialing, like the snow leopard rush, just hurry to get to you, after all, promised that will return in time once the flame is extinguished from the fire and will have a candle from a candle, you open the door into the house and let me warm me with your warmth, but the sun will break out the window and we again have again to say goodbye, you candles you burn, and I to wander, to wander the snow-covered steppe, waiting for the evening, to again at night for a few hours to return to you, until the sky the sun is out, time to kiss and smile after the meeting to wait is not easy. But soon we will forget about everything and stay together forever, because we only need to suffer a little, we don't have long to wait, we can do everything, just want to and the sun will not interfere with us.
Servant, guard, slave, administrator. Names many he one, old traditions and laws conservative decided to leave, leaving the store to return to the free spaces, where fresh air, sky, light, peace, and not the remote underground corridors where the fallen go to drink. Where in the casemates of electricity and steel among waste paper and plastics, in the shackles of slavery, women were chained to the fire of their youth extinguished, where lies in the price of denunciations and guile, where greed destroys reasonable calculation, in such conditions of the collapse of the state, in the end, probably, will die. Servant, guard, slave, administrator.
You are the light of my beautiful soul, you are the darkness of my miserly soul, your love can be passionate, and maybe icy. Your gaze captivated with its beauty, the embrace of your hands bound the flesh, I see and breathe you, but the ice in my heart can not be broken. After all, in the body of a beast devoid of feelings, feelings of great love! His lot is the arts, serving the muses, writing poetry. And don't judge me too harshly, don't blame me for being careless, we don't have much time left, two years in this wheel.
Chekhov's Barber shop where in the crooked mirror the client sees himself chained to the garrotte, where the scissor hands hang over his brow, and the Barber-make-up artist drowns in work. The movement of fingers creates chaos, here the smell of perfume hovers, here Eva Braun cuts her hair, David rejoices, Goliath sobs.
The silence is striking, the movement of thoughts in my head stopped, the letters and words froze in my throat, and nothing, alas, has changed. The same problems as before, the same faces, the same fuss, and it is unknown what will happen next, in the movements of life in the spiral of Deank.
Like a shy leopard, arching its back, it was about to attack, the net opened, the bard then cried, at last I got you. Like a dove in the tangle of a snare, the bard rejoices, tastes victory, but the meaning of fun is empty, isn't it? And only a butterfly in the sky flutters.
Where the banks of the swamp are covered with granite, where a city was built on the bones of people, it predicts a crisis for the residents of the city, military events and famine. Again the protester will raise a placard, the March of dissenters will move in a parade, blood will be spilled on your matriarchy, the feeder will turn its back to the forest.
The hand turns the millstone, trying to grind time and epoch, the last events of centuries, the country going up on the scaffold.
My world of Jumanji in Pandora's box, where someone hides behind a marabou mask, Welsh's nightmares, city corridors lead Block into a strange game. Where rebus Beatles unravel will have to collect squares in a solid color, I'm from a deadly dream will Wake up, but the question is why? The answer is no.
Here Scarecrow worship is circled by a demon, but the children of corn do not know that there are no miracles in the banana Republic, and what miracles, where they eat watermelons. But they continue to echo the Scarecrow and worship the pineapple and melon, climb the palm tree to get a coconut, that's how people have fun in madhouses. Where the madman who flashed intelligence is a deity, and can rule the recklessness of the brain for eternity, where the aesculapians did not care, they sang odes to carelessness.
Tristan and Juliet betrayed Isolde, Romeo in anger the family's honor is hurt, the shame of the Montague Capulets is announced, Tristan is hanged, a vendetta has begun. In a bloody battle, noble houses converged on the square, crossing swords and swords, brother, father, sister mixed in blood.... Taking revenge on the knights for the death, to raise the flag.
In the space of the soil, the tremor of the earth paves the way to the root of the Mandrake, and at this time its flowers are devoured in the breakdance of caterpillar tracks- swallowtails. The soul of a flower cast down into the abyss will be reborn again by the Phoenix in the fire, the worm did not have time to staranya useless and only butterflies flutter in the sky.
The seal is broken from the Holy sepulchre, a chorus of drunken angels from heaven plays trumpets, Hephaestus pulls out the teeth of the infidels, and Terpsichore begins to dance. Jesus Christ hides a grin behind the mask of an executioner with a sword in his hands, the virgin Mary, smiling, weeps for the fate of a blind informer. On Kepepe, the Apostle Paul beats Peter, the Archangel Gabriel laughs at him, flies, in the mind of the Buddha, the Lord himself counts rubles for passes sold to souls.
I'm a Galleon, breaking the waves, went with the current, with full sails of the sea and the oceans conquering, and having survived the wreck in the ice, now I proudly rule the frigate in the sea, but the stars again predict the ice, and maybe the second wreck, but, thank God, you appeared. And taking the helm of the frigate redirecting and a new course on the map paving me thus from destruction and saving an unknown path to the eyes of opening that was hidden behind a snowstorm and maybe it's better that I did not see it, and then would hardly have met with you, just a pity that the Galleon did not survive. Well, even if you can't get back to the old days, you can handle a frigate easily and you can conquer almost any sea, but that's all I was happy about.
People are in a hurry, they are in a hurry not knowing that all of them have long been doomed in their fall, but drowning, they are on a leash from Satan. Only the true ones opened the door to God, knew the joy and his warmth, and there are still those who have not forgotten what free good is. But the day of reckoning is about to begin, the light will fade, the wave will rise, hands will be raised to the sky wildly, there is no salvation, everything will be swallowed up by the water. So people will run to Hades, where rivers of hot lava erasing all the usual appearance, will clear the mores of pride. Will burn in the fire all clean and will not leave a trace, alas, your prayers are in vain you will all perish Hooray! Salvation, there is no and in the sky, will spew lightning the sky, I say you this collapse, over humanity victory.
A fly girl came out to fish, waving her hands and hearing only half an ear, her eyes flapping loudly buzzing pins, her acid sausage. House and rave a girl is pouring out of the headphones-a fly smokes, spits, drinks energy to hold, perlo, hammered and not let go, and before that mushrooms, anasha after hashish, a wheel and water. It was then that the poor thing was blocked, access to the brain of oxygen closed fables my moral on the face, to hell with drugs-drink wine!
To enjoy the beauty of the rose I do not need to pluck the flower of love, the flower will wither, and tears will be shed and the petals will fall to the ground.
A fool walks around the world, he is no one to call him in any way, he tricked a woman's heart, deprived her of her job, home, and family, eventually left her and ran away, and he himself did not suffer at all, but this is only in body, and in soul he will always remain empty. And the heart of a woman again burns with fire, and only a scar remains from resentment, and the moral of this fable is simple, do not be like that fool whose soul is empty, and his head is a mess.
Flabby skin wrinkles gray hair and senility blind fatigue, in a blanket, wrapped up, enters the house, loneliness toothless old age. Beats a stick on the legs with varicose veins, beats the heart with a stroke threatening, in the end finishes with sclerosis, in the coffin to the grave with him. But before that, there will be a birth, there will be youth – it's time without hassle, adolescence, growing up and again, a rut of worries.
I'm looking for you, o light of my eyes, but the night closed my eyes with a veil, caught up with sleep, so that Morpheus stole you, hid the evidence of the abduction. Having risen before dark having learned about the fact of theft, I hasten to search for my beloved, in the darkness of the night having defeated the messenger of the guards, I will free you from the oppression of sleep.
To enjoy such a beautiful look, it doesn't take forever it steals years, well, I'll be a thief too, I'll steal time, but you'll be young. And let me be judged by mother nature, Yes I am wrong, I admit my guilt, but what can nature do against God who gives love and beauty.
By the amplitude of the particle vibrations, I feel that you should be near, Yes, I don't see your faces anymore, but I don't consider my life hell. Yes, I'm blind, but it doesn't matter I'm grateful to God for that, because I can't see what the country has come to, how the inhabitants are lying at the parapet. But I will hear voices, and this is very important for a poet, for the rhyme of writing a verse, for creating a poem and a sonnet. And if you heard what I hear, you would be horrified and confused, because everything has voices, even earth, water and air, death and inspiration.
In the rays of the sunset of the solar circle, the surface of the water lit up with a bloody light, you came ashore out of nowhere, or maybe you came to it from the depths. Your eyes Shine with moonlight, and your robe shines brighter than the stars you are looking for a boy who calls himself summer, over whose brow hangs a Rowan cluster. His clothes are like a tangle of grapes that consist of vines, fruits, branches.... The violin is playing, he is sitting by the waterfall, and you are walking towards him among the empty fields. And every trace where you walked and stepped, was filled with water, life, giving, then nature bloomed around, and the nightingales sounded, gave a song. And when the boy heard the singing, he immediately got up, was glad that spring was coming to him, took the violin and went to meet her, inserting wonderful words into the music. That everything is love, that everything has come into motion, that everything has happened in life sometimes, there was a sin, but there will be deliverance, as in a kiss their lips will merge.
In a single alloy, metals will mix, two streams will merge into one stream, poems will create words and phrases, only in a kiss will you and I merge.
I am like a flower in a fragrant bloom seduce the aroma of young virgins, love vibes are exhausted in an instant, virgins rush to drink nectar from heaven, but they can enjoy my beauty, you can not drink nectar and pluck a flower. I will not be like other flowers that are given to everyone for nothing, a flower for everyone, and nectar for you.
You leave and in the moments of parting, our embrace is interrupted by the creaking of the door, in an instant between us kilometers of distance and the echoing wait. You return, and an hour does not pass, I did not have time to indulge in sadness and longing, but the problem comes from the North and again the separation floats in the semi-darkness. You lingered, and the separation became hell, unbearable waiting to endure, but, shuddering under the beloved sensitive gaze, I turned around to see you again.
You are angry, you look with reproach with incomprehension with longing, you torment his soul with your eyes, what is he guilty of before you? And here is in guesses day passes, passes evening, night has come, the answer in the arms of finds, sighing, he understood, you are tired. And anger is replaced by mercy, the reproach of longing goes away, the face is lit up with a smile, you whisper, I'm sorry, closing your eyes. To which he immediately responds, squeezing his arms tighter, that he understands everything perfectly, keeps saying, my love, be silent. Keeps saying that your words are not worth it, that apologies are useless, sad eyes do not take you off, throw, shut up to him. And their hands clenched in their arms, and their lips merged into a kiss, they laughed softly, because it was only a game that fills the feelings with passion and does not let the fire go out, in the hearts of the spark ignites the spark of love, love, love.
I'm not bored, no I'm just sad, you're not around, the day goes by in vain, and my soul feels like it's over, alas, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, but it so happened that when I didn't hear your voice in the morning, my heart stopped in my chest, I lost touch with the world and with you. But here you are whispering, Hello good morning, I Wake up, my heart is beating again, and the sun ray shines in the cloudy sky, the one who gives life, my love.
You sit alone in a cafe with a Cup of tea, and you think, of course, about me, but when you quietly open the door, I appear before you in all my glory. You can't believe your eyes, you look surprised, you say that it's a dream and I'm probably dreaming, but I'm coming to you and I'm inspired to say one thing – I love you, I love you.
Driven by the wind in the twilight of the night, not knowing the warmth and female affection, the path directed to the light of a moth, I move on the wings of passion. With me, a lovely butterfly flutters, its flight turned my head, its love captivates and inspires, I have never loved anyone so much. And if the light goes out, the darkness will come, we will join our efforts, and in our souls the flame will burn, illuminating the road for us in the night.
The life of a movie film a man an actor a Director's Guinea pig the movie projector is on repeat the voice - over is the actor's thought.
When I hugged you for the first time, I screamed to myself and even cried, well, finally, you are together, he said, and the rain began to drip softly from the sky. The first time I saw you, when I was a baby, you called me brother, I smiled, called you sister, and we laughed as we enjoyed the sunset. I was eight and you were sixteen when we had to leave you, and it's been many, many years since then, but we haven't stopped smiling.
And blood will flow from the silence and sound, the last dance will be performed by an artist whose paintings are flour, a poet whose work not everyone could understand. When the dance finishes its beginning and comes to the final end, it will be covered with a blanket of white snow, and it will be plunged into darkness and silence. But they will not forget the dancer's past, his poems are sung in praise of the new troops who died from the workers ' terror and those who appreciate true love.
Night voices of birds beckoned to sleep, to distract not to go to the garden chambers, and I wanted to dance with you in the arms of your hands my joy, but the guard sleeps, the doors to the garden are closed and time destroys the beauty of flowers, your eyes are hidden from the truth, you will not hear true words from liars. And you are dissatisfied with the protection of the garden, that its beauty can not be protected, I will give up heaven in favor of hell, but tomorrow I will come to guard the garden myself. But now Morpheus has spread the net of sleep, he has power over my mind, the darkness of night reigns in his domain, and by morning the power of his spell weakens. And now, lifting my tired lashes, I slowly enter the garden door, where you, clutching the reins of the chariot, light my way to the post.
And how can I look into the eyes of the people without affection, look with doubt at the actions of people? When you live and sleep according to the will of God, having accepted all the hardships and torments of three deaths. But the dance-life with the sounds of nature takes me with it into a round dance, depriving me of light and infant freedom, again condemning me to go to the people. And people will ask who are you? I will answer – a prophet, a soul, a poet, a soldier of love. I will meet you with my warmth, smile, and happiness, giving you light at the beginning of your journey. But to complete the chain of rebirths after itself, leaving a trace, in the strange words of my poems, a barely noticeable light will dawn.
We dance hard, sensuously and eagerly inhaling trinitrotoluene into our lungs, and to the sounds of flutes and mechanical pianos we dance twist and rock and roll. And the pace of our steps is explosive, these movements are only a beautiful game, I am young, you are young and passionate, but only our dance will last until morning. We will burn in the fire that we created with you and quench the thirst of passion with an explosion, but as soon as the sun is replaced by the moon, we will soar again in a new dance.
Why did my brother set foot on the white road, you know it's not the right way. Better give yourself to the service of God, you will know the meaning, the truth and the essence. And giving up worldly desires such as drugs, alcohol, you will purify the soul through a chain of suffering, you will know joy through sorrow and pain.
When to you my friend I call, insignificant thoughts pencil draws lines, takes all the best from the common stream, my ways, directing in stormy streams. In which I, wasting my soul so as not to perish on the sandy bottom, float to the surface, get out on land and walk again on the ground. Scorched by the sun languishing in the heat, giving all my strength to you I will reach, having forgotten my sleep for so long waiting for peace, in the arms of your hands I will find salvation.
The night is calm, the stars are lit up in the sky, the moon has risen, a Blizzard is outside the Windows, and dreams will rush in like sea waves and December turns into April. Bed and room this is already nature, you are a mouse you run among the flowers, the weather is beautiful outside, and I wish you sweet dreams.
How else can I look at you insignificant people, when you have chosen the path that is the most unworthy of all available, which turns a person into cattle. Now pray to the Lord for forgiveness, but you sin, alas, do not redeem your kind fools you have condemned to humiliation, all because you do not know how to love. You spend all your energy on dirty work and all strive for power and money, you have forgotten affection, warmth, care, you are inhumans like animals.
It all started with emails, if I knew in advance the words of the last line was not set up commas and dots, you wouldn't have the story end. But it was all decided by fate, and the prophecy of the line fell on us when I wrote my poems, in one of them I called you my sister.
When will resolve crowds of people I'll go have lunch with my Muse, a Cup of coffee lasts a moment, here's a poem on a sheet of paper as the curse falls, and the Muse believe me, would prefer you, but we shared a wall of rain, so I'm indulging in the sadness, I write you a verse about the usual cafe. In which there is comfort and peace I am sorry that you are not near me, so I am indulging in sadness I write to you in the castle of light and steel, so that you quickly complete the business, and drink coffee with me would come.
I don't know the language of human words and their construction of phrases. I communicate using rhymes, hand caresses, kisses, eye movements. I don't know the language of relationships based on lies, the merciless truth is much nicer. If feelings from the heart come from the chest, then the soul is both warm and lighter.
In a country where money, gallons of liters and square meters are counted, where every beggar, alcoholic, drug addict drags his existence to objects. Where the word of the Lord is traded, crossed, killed, stolen, where they are ready to tear everyone apart for paper access to power, where the feelings of duty, honor, friendship are trampled into the mud of military service with a single word calling everything as a dedocommunity, not tired. Where women were taught to protect their honor, they were taught to trade it, where they pay for normal treatment, but not, then torment, where those who lived to retirement, dream of being buried according to all rites and articles, but do not come out for money. Where minorities are oppressed, racism sets foot in the cities, where there is no equality in labor, the Director in white, the slave in shit, where the person who hid the income does not build factories and factories, the Fund to help the poor will not create, best buy, sell everything. Where someone stole or killed, free, if paid. Where poor creativity freaks with TV screens trading faces and promoting names are already busy, how many times? And there is no cattle Council on them, to pour poison into their wine to rid the world of delirium, from the President, from the Plenipotentiary, from deputies, from shit, so that the country gets up from its knees, finally, well, it seems to be the end.
Yes, a bird and a soul without a body, but so what and why should I sing, because thoughts are horses of lawlessness, they can not keep up with you and do not have time.
The dream of a song of phone numbers, where all commas and dots were placed from the name to the last line, and the rhyme of omissions was observed.
The time allotted to me is painfully short, two days left to remain in the consciousness of this, then I am a tree, a road and a flower, and I was a gardener, a soldier and a poet.
No, there are no duplicates in this film, the script is written in the course, clutching a gun in my hand, I gradually move towards God. And here is the line crossing on the soul of the sin of murder, taking in the swamp of blood drowning so nothing and not understanding.
I dream of a world wrapped in paper in paper from under banknotes, where, having jumped once over the fence, you trample your own garden and vegetable garden. You're ruining your soul by stepping on flowers, plucking fruit, Apple branches, bending everything in your path, destroying, spitting on where you get.
Here is Achilles husbands beautiful son of immortality Gods awarded, and paid, all nothing Altyn and still remained dissatisfied. What kind of immortality, if you are still vulnerable, even though the probability is small, but still there is a sniper, Voroshilov Klim then write - my God is gone.
The revolt of the soul against the cocoon of the body occurs in my mind, the chain system is outdated, dirty inside a pond, the wrap compresses the thoracic cage, fingers his throat tightened in the grip of someone's heart with a needle pierces all the floats and dark eyes, pulse is weakening, losing consciousness, lowered my hands, and a suicide the shudder tells about the beginning. About the beginning of the path to the unknown in the spiral of my Deenka, changing reality and appearance forever, forever, forever.
The hero climbed up, closing the machine - gun nest on the embrasure of the bunker, and the Russian infantry broke through, shouting hurrah and remembering his mother. Tanks entering the besieged city, and heard the sound of shooting from Papacha, the Soviet army in Russia is ruled by famine, hunger, murder, revenge, and the country of denunciations of slanders and tips, victories and failures, the country unions relations and prohibitions of the country, which rule could the executioner. The executioner is a tyrant, the murderer is a leader-dictator, and anyone who sets a regime in which the democratizer is unquestioning and infallible. But all in vain, and the hatchet between Berlin and Moscow is unearthed, dictates the rules of the game, weaves a network of intrigues, weaves a cocoon. The star of David is fading in the sky, kosher pigs are being slaughtered in casemates, intelligence is fighting on its ears, standing on its head on its hind legs. And the thought of death deprived everyone of sleep, a black angel circles over every body, and Satan rules the carnival, indulging the false pipe of the world, faithfully serves. Serves people ostensibly villain, public-useful interests hiding the true truth from people, bloody Affairs, calling – progress, progress of friendship, and cohesion of the country, progress of the spirit of military brotherhood achieved on the fields of war of the great state in the world.
In the calendar erasing days, weeks, months and years to live on the wear and tear of your soul, having tasted the forbidden fruit of freedom. Exist among strangers, family friends, friends of acquaintances, in the environment of household appliances, in the movement of thoughts sought.
Night in cocktails of flaming passion, in kisses of embracing hands, I am in your angel, and we have closed the vicious circle. You collected my image from the ashes, from broken pieces of mirrors, I with rain and gusts of wind before you, as a Ghost appeared. I fell at your feet at the sight of you, I kissed your footsteps, and cried out at night – have pity on the Gods, I am not worthy of praise, I am a heartless slave, so what is my reward for her, her flame and infinite light, her eyes, love and soul?
To the beat of the drum March, troops descend, flashes of blinding grenades hit the eyes. Bullets fly over your head, shells burst, Klim Voroshilov pushes the cartridge into the revolver. The sounds of a drum solo are heard again, and a couple of soldiers have fallen to the ground in the trench. The officer shouted – remove the blind man! It will be executed - shouted Gena Kurkov. Immediately a bullet pierced the screaming head, Klim's ammunition is running out, well, do I have to shoot with a carbine, well, my front-line Affairs were delayed.
No one needs and no one waits, no one loves and no one will meet.
Outside the window, it's still raining, the stars are shining in the sky, the moon is shining. The forest is dressed in yellowed leaves, the wind scoundrel tears the leaves, and whirling with them will dance a Polonaise, scatter them on the ground. Once again, winter will knock on the door and rush in without permission, and after it, the cold will cool our relationship with you.
Not Brit, not cut, not combed, sullen, brooding, silent, funny to the point of pain, uncouth, and grumpy to everything else. Sometimes he is cheerful, but his laughter sometimes sounds out of place, he is swarthy like a Persian, in amorous Affairs there is success, smart, beautiful, though poorly cut, but strong in poetry, he is inclined to hashish with alcohol, and is often inspired by the Muse. The madness in the image is frozen, and the brow is raised slightly, but his soul is sad, melancholy and melancholy.
In mixing the smells of two people, in the touch of hands and body, in movements complex and simple, we bring ourselves to the limit. We tear our clothes, in a riot of passion, hot embraces, sealing our desires from power and releasing them from shame, we indulge in tender caresses, we give ourselves up without a mind, we are busy with useful work, shouting in languor, barely breathing. We kiss, greedily we each other for a while at least becoming one, but we tear the vicious image of the circle, so that the train could not go off the rails.
Love foreign shores frigate does not appeal to my heart, I love the Islands that the sailors know where the underground grotto is hidden by water hills of two rocks in the middle, where the steppe with green grass stretches down in the valley. Where the scents of flowers permeate the rarefied air, where thunder thunders from the voices of our with you, but calm comes its peal, where the radiant palisade stands fenced, in it the beast walks doomed to tell you poems, to echo the feelings of love that he keeps in his heart, when you quietly enter the house, what passion for you feeds, and from separation as his vulnerable soul suffers, and tears are full of his eyes, when he does not see you during the day, he is silent dejected, what will please you when the evening of the day begins, and the sun sets over the hill? But empty in the apartment corridor and songs not to sing dotting obani network to get to bed then apply soft paws hops and a sweet dream then forget to wait for you to be in your arms to yourself and swim and swim and swim and swim through the stormy waves of the ocean your extraordinary ideas repeating one – I love Svetlana you alone in all the seas.
I'm sorry, I was too busy with this job, I completely forgot about you, my angel. Be patient, and again I will surround you with full care and create a new explosion. An explosion of passion, kisses of emotions and caresses that will burn us both to the ground, taking us to the world of fantasies, ideas, dreams and fairy tales - dissolving in the arms of a calm sleep.
I need the Kama Sutra – the Bible and Torah, the Bardo Theodol, the Psalter, the Koran. I preach the religion of the instrument, I sacrifice myself to the lips. I serve as an altar – a bed with a sofa, my panicadilo – lampshade, being a pastor of the soul and chaplain, a missionary of honor mon Amour. Minister of mass over the coveted body, Keeper of keys from the heavenly gates I conduct services standing behind the Church imposing my Patriarchy.
A paper-colored red dog was drooling with its tongue out. He ran, from the drought and heat, breaking the silence with a ringing bark. Mechanical birds flew off, barking, hearing in the plasticine forest on cardboard boxes together sat singing ode to the wheel. A bear crawled out of a plastic den, a plush hare came running from the edge of the forest, a cone fell on an iron Fox, and a rubber hedgehog rustled its leaves. The forest is noisy, the bushes are bent, there is nothing more to say to the bitch, and they laugh well at the animals, that's what it means to eat fly agarics.
Tell me why you don't trust me, why you're testing my feelings, why you're hurting me, why I'm asking you to tell me. Don't just mock me, please don't worry, don't doubt me, you know I'm loyal and I love you. And you don't need to trust anyone, as long as you're around, and I swear I'll be a jerk if I cheat on you. After all, we don't need these quarrels, resentments, glances and reproaches, and we don't need to talk to you through our teeth.
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© Copyright: Эмануэльф Сладенький, 2020
Свидетельство о публикации №120092808805
Свидетельство о публикации №120092808805
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