The Machinations of the Jews and the Stars of Zhuk

     The Machinations of the Jews and the Stars of Zhukov.
It’s not even the two-dimensionality that’s depressing, it’s the one-room and single-occupancy.
When you are practically not there, but theoretically blows away from the palm of your hand.
This is how death always acts - you come out of two or three shells.
You are bristling with fish scales. You stare toothlessly, finding yourself among liquid female bodies,
complaining of suffocation and kidney pain...
Almond-shaped eyes like Sappho. The pubis is golden goat down. There are traces of hematomas on the ribs.
Something became sad and jerked. I remembered something familiar.
Get rid of those blackheads and those blue-green shadows!
I'm not your gerontologist. I'm kind of a ghost...
...The sound of the pelvic bones when dancing.
What a Russian people! - he blows, even though he crosses himself with three fingers.
It blooms in the lilac-northern twilight, smelling of lilacs, to the sounds of a waltz.
Alcohol flows along the blade of the knife and shines like cobra rings......
How do you like this description of a geologists' stop? - pointless and short?
...I spit with rotten teeth. In a vacant lot. In the city of gays. Large, slow hail from the sky.
This is how they reward you: welcome back to Leningrad,
into the hot fire of rock from the Very Far East. A cunning *** creature in the stage of euphoria,
termite exterminator - large-scaled pangolin.
...We are looking for a teenager in the bush. Small fryer. He's from the Transvaal.
Transvestite. He danced before every act, (sex actor!), to the singing of the maybugs...
The waiting rooms are always hot and full of sanitary pads.
This is the same expectation of death, when there is little good and there is a chill throughout the body!

This is definitely the machinations of the Jews!
Then I recite over the lines:
Marshal Zhukov stands sternly.
He has already seen, or better yet, smelled
intrigues of non-Russian Jews against Russian Chukchi.

...So ask me: why do stars fall from it, like from the sky?
thin little souls, worn out by life as if by the wind...
No!, these are the prisoners in the prison zone. Believe me, turned. I believe in Zhukov!