Retired Colonel

You're seething, baby angel, dressed up in anything light, pink, translucent, like
The ensign's wife is on a spree. They say you don't sleep at night. You're peeking. You're toiling...
Are you worried about the standing tip of the sugar-sweet.
I agree with you here. You and I are like retired colonels.
Stop! You interrupted me, you assholes. I was talking about the eclipse of the sun.
When a bird crosses, by a brave young user, the sharp spire of the Muslim month, and not the blunt round face of the Orthodox Easter moon.
...I then wandered for a long time and boldly along the slimy muddy bottom. Like studying the bottom of a river.
With a cheap woman who stinks of cheap desiccs. Clicking the rosary: ;;even-odd, even-odd.
Concentrated and deafeningly muffled frogs...
When you lose one, exactly and only one, namely the left “Akhmatov” glove
and the door to the balcony without a handle. When your fingerprints are on the trunk...
It's hard to get away with it. We have to be bold. Demand abstract justice like manna.
Sing about “accident” and spiritual wound,

It’s not prudent to expect that they will be generous, bitches,
when they squeeze you on two counts at once, like at a disco from both sides, they 'suckyes'...
Are involuntary dreams already dirty intent? I know. I judge myself and even condemn myself.
Spit on the little lucky one. It deprives you of your strength. Happiness is a prerequisite for rape.
So they bury you alive, like living creatures: there is dampness on the walls, frost on the windows,
a short nap leaves icons in memory.
It has become pointy and fashionable, like a top, to wake up the three of them, hugging their asses.
Listening to sex as a duty program for bad weather: a dust storm in the next six months...
Damn, we're on Mars!  How did you end up?
Life no longer ends with death, this bold dot. Now it ends with life
Horrible as a dream in which you fall. And your shadow catches up with you like a sting.
It defines you like a cast, when your brain is in gray bandages of thoughts.
And you whisper - fuck off!
...Damp walls remain aloof. We serve - they justify themselves. We get paid double.
We are as white inside as the white bathrooms. This is such a formula for happiness. Oval like a bidet.
...It's trouble when the bottom drops out from under your feet. You touch the dirty bottom with your sleeve. It's like you're going into captivity.
The pressure presses down (200 to 120), and the heartbeat accelerates.
Why aren’t you, a retired colonel with a wild red gaze and stinking chrome boots, answering?