to you,
whose eyes are now looking
in the mirror of my lines…
I
i spent a long time thinking,
about how to start my book of letters…
and what to call it?
poems within letters…
letters from the loony bin…
letters from paradise…
letters to myself…
letters to you…
we all write letters to someone.
so i didn’t notice
how i had already started…
reading yours — i write an answer:
hello to you!
witness to the great battle
of illusion and reality!
II
in the subway.
the underground home of a large gloomy family.
here there is us,
our consciousness,
our memories,
which means that there is everything here.
birds,
space,
continents,
kings and queens,
presidents,
artists…
what difference is there between a Mondrian
and a marble pattern
on a subway wall?
the first and the latter both attract people to themselves,
as destinies rush past one and the other,
staying true to their values…
to their art…
to their prisons.
here a person sits:
what is the difference between the real
and the imagined,
what if you never actively interact with one
or the other?
getting up from his seat, Redon leaves…
freeze!
go away…
the voice on the speaker says:
Trubnaya Station…
the train stops,
the doors open —
no one, anywhere.
III
taking my son to school…
a tired young woman
slips past me
poetry whizzes past the woman
on the panes
(the windows of the houses sing today
with patterned ice,
regardless of quarrels
with the households) —
what a unpleasant, grievous loss!
IV
the underground country of the subway.
a smiling lady
against the background of the vertical black rivers
of the tunnels.
your smile seeps into me
in slow currents…
my unexpected and sudden love!
my unrequited love.
the palm of your hand touches your hair,
you caress the eyelids of restless travelers,
and only your subtle glance down
betrays your secret pain…
as
i try to understand
the source of your pain,
the train makes a stop —
you quickly harvest your eyes
and head for the exit —
there,
where the guillotine of doors
divides your life and mine
into the before and after…
V
i contemplate yet another failure…
trying to cradle the irrepressible pain inside…
the number of times i’ve been told no —
is the number of times a butterfly
has flown over my shadow…
the number of times i’ve been told no —
is the number of times the flowers smelled sweet
at my feet…
the number of times i’ve been told no —
is the number of times the birds have sung
in my honor…
the number of times you’ve been told no —
is the number of times the morning rose
outside your window…
the number of times you’ve been told no —
is the number of times your lips have been pampered
by pure water…
the number of times you’ve been told no —
is the number of times the wind has been stilled
around you by an invisible hand from heaven…
how many times have we forgotten
to allow a triumph of victory inside ourselves,
when every no was smashed to smithereens…
VI
the happy face
of a subway employee,
the days flying by sitting in a booth,
between the iron teeth of escalators:
what is a prison?
what is loneliness?
what is despair?
hunted legs,
the grinding asphalt, granite, marble… earth:
what is freedom?
a complete bum,
decomposing against the backdrop of people
relaxing in the park:
what is society?
somewhere children were forever silenced,
not having begged for bread:
what is this our word?
in a stranger the response
tour timid moans —
what is the basis for our word
and in whom do we sow
the seeds of words?
VII
within the urban noise of engines
i hear the splash of a river,
in the gray texture of asphalt
i see Cezanne, which cubism predicted,
in the universal stench
i inhale the scent of the sea…
i’m not here.
who is this guy,
who are my feet carrying
into the whirlpool of ordinariness?
i don’t know who he is,
we are not acquainted.
VIII
the more you fight against it:
screaming, getting angry, crying…
the more i see
a friend within you.
how do i recognize your secrets?
i look at our child —
his eyes:
they’ve known everything for a long time.
why with age do we lose the ability to
understand?
IX
strangers
on the naked streets —
their glances paint me
as i truly am…
a bird flies away into a white cloud —
a certain clarity in this sign:
secret knowledge about myself
is moving away from me
irrevocably…
X
chains of seated passengers…
they pull out their heart
and mold a smartphone out of it,
holding it like a prayer book —
a quiet prayer service.
in the slicing impacts of the rails
the needs of every martyr are reflected,
and the train goes on and on
in its own wretched direction…
XI
again you’re raising your walls!
your shrub wall turned into a garden,
then into a forest…
and again you sow seeds for the wall,
and again you wait for the harvest…
XII
you are reflected in passersby —
i am reflected in you —
we are reflected in the faceless crowd —
the faceless crowd is reflected in us —
everyone is rushing around within the four corners
of the cubist hell…
let’s exit this museum —
there’re no authentic works here.
XIII
endless office space…
fingers tapping on keys:
composers of a new music.
the notes are numbers —
the symphony of a prison hell…
XIV
what do you think, it is i do,
when i’m left alone with myself?
i remember myself.
that is how i am able to remember
who i really am.
solitude helps me
maintain myself.
then comes the time to give
a piece of myself to others.
and thus it happens over and over…
in the whole process there is the meaning of love.
a lonely icy ocean,
its eternal nursing not in vain:
i’m learning from it.
XV
my wife —
cherry lips of mine,
vanilla hands of mine —
my tender flower.
i will see you again today:
again you will complain
that i do not appreciate you,
about my indifference to you —
about your imprisonment.
the universe dims outside the window —
i will cry from the injustice to you…
and again i won’t hear you.
XVI
hold me tight in the hug of yours.
protect me from all of my enemies.
love me more than my notions.
raise my needs above those of yourself.
allow me to experience happiness next to you.
pour me some warm milk,
and we will contemplate the blizzard
from our nest
under the thick blankets…
did i dream it?
or are you calling me?
XVII
a house of horror.
i’m walking down a dark corridor…
the white fuse plugs of the electric meter come alive
before my eyes in my stupor —
i scream silently,
i awaken.
again an echo from childhood —
a reflection of the sound waves
of a subcutaneous scream
from the obstacles of the past…
in the here and now.
XVIII
raging people, who look like shit;
raging shit, which looks like people;
fucking dicks
in over fucked vaginas and assholes;
knives,
machine guns and bullets in the hands of bastards;
crap being broadcast from the stands;
other shitheads and fuckers…
interesting, can blackness
become even blacker in our consciousness?
dead silence in radioactive nuclear dust —
is that the limit of the mob
or enlightenment?
XIX
the drops of my weakness hung on the leaves.
my strength is made stronger on the roads,
that lead to the goal.
my foot stepped over the threshold of the doorway —
i stepped over the line of the horizon,
from where there will be no return.
XX
when i’m devastated
or depression has taken over me,
i put together a puzzle
from what, i see,
surrounding me:
women and men
moving about on foot —
an eternal dance within time.
a shopping center of coffee marble —
artificial happiness for a paid receipt.
a multitude of doors, purses, letters,
cell numbers —
the entourage of our biographies…
thus the mosaic of my city is ready:
i’m consoled with a masterpiece.
XXI
entwining me with despair —
is like entwining the day
with the cover of night,
it’s like weaving together Ezra Pound,
Georg Trakl and Basho…
first extinguish my sun
that lights up the days,
or erase my lines,
that have forever entered you.
XXII
sometimes i behave in a manner,
as if i loved,
only the other way around.
this means losing one’s bearings.
yes, i am a devastating nocturnal disaster
in broad daylight.
XXIII
instead of opening the ventilation window
and letting the fresh warmth of the summer rain
into our lives,
we frantically tap on the monitor window:
wall photos bleed their dust,
seeing how the one suffocates,
who lives with us in stuffy rooms…
XXIV
races — are a system.
the system — is society.
society — is my paintings.
my eyes are doomed to paint them
as long as i live…
white, black, yellow, red and gray,
we will definitely think up a new painting —
we will create new ...isms:
we will write with pink and green,
blue and jade,
emerald and amaranth…
we will definitely breed
and multiply —
we’ll live under the sun of Pollock.
XXV
when we come to terms with a loss
or when we think about that, which we don’t have,
our world falls apart…
there is a way out:
that which reality has not completed —
imagination will complete…
words and faith.
for reality, i often have
no feelings,
but imagination — excites me…
i have enough courage
to admit that —
i am whole and invulnerable.
are you?
XXVI
when i found out about your values…
when i saw the result of your values…
i stopped being afraid —
my fear became worthless,
because now i have nothing to lose
in you.
XXVII
when this world becomes too much,
when the ceilings bury me,
i open the window of myself
and consider the prospect of escaping —
to Sergei Tsimbalenko…
just to Sergei Tsimbalenko.
XXVIII
dear passengers,
relinquish your seats to the elderly,
the disabled, passengers with children
and pregnant women,
relinquish your seats to the discouraged,
those frazzled by the hustle and bustle,
humiliation and abandonment…
when exiting the car,
don’t forget your personal belongings,
don’t forget compassion, kindness…
don’t forget conscience…
don’t forget the poems…
Celan, Whitman, Transtromer,
Lautreamont, Lodeizen, Bukowski…
don’t forget that, you were born
from the very first poet,
who had the word at the beginning.
XXIX
everything is in its place.
everything is on the shelves.
everything is under control.
and then you call:
why can’t you tell the difference
between what’s good and what’s bad?
this is so fucked up… (((
i’m tired.
you are deaf to me.
and i don’t understand anything anymore.
your QR-code can’t be read,
or my scanner doesn’t work…
a dead end…
XXX
world.
a minimum security prison.
the prisoners are taking a walk.
feet move along the walls…
along the steps…
along the pipes…
along the fences…
along the premises…
along the cities…
along the continents…
along the earth…
i guess, in reality, that’s it.
XXXI
my phone number is +79055760936.
if you decide to call,
note:
on the other side of the line
will not be your idea of me —
it will be me there.
XXXII
when there’s no desire to go anywhere…
during their revolutions,
in the bitter period of their tragedies
and full-fledged internal wars…
victory and salvation hide in the details…
a man stands
on the bus,
holding onto a vertical handrail,
which looks like a spear:
he pierced my sadness…
there another one,
with a sealant gun:
he sealed my split seams…
it is good, there are such warriors:
they protect our species from annihilation.
smiling, i continue on…
XXXIII
how many years have passed…
it was only one evening.
didn’t meet with her,
didn’t love her,
didn’t have sex with her,
didn’t make friends with her,
didn’t even kiss her…
a cup, decorated with tea leaves,
verlibras, a little on paper, a little in communication,
elusive music…
goodbye… no messages.
sometimes the full representation comes to me…
lives with me…
leaves again…
i don’t get in its way.
XXXIV
the city.
the way from point a to point b…
a glance determines the reality:
spots on a chair’s trim,
an orange line on the marble,
scratches on a hat,
shimmering red stripes,
a sign «press to open»,
clenched fingers holding flowers,
some sort of box on wheels,
different sized shoes,
dangling heads,
a gray folding backpack,
a shaking ass,
a yellow number «4»,
a symbol with the words «passage closed»,
an ornament with a star on it,
a LOVE REPUBLIC billboard,
an arrow with the word «exit»…
the sense of hearing and smell
interposed into the visible:
musty air filled with the smell of coffee…
gray noise diluted by a radio:
Sordid Affair «Röyksopp»…
in my memory musical images appear:
Bela Bartok, Serge Gainsbourg…
a mixture of sights, smells, and sounds…
once again the sight dominates:
the granite rectangles of the route,
a sign on the right
«emergency door opening»,
headphones in ears,
nails, lips, hair,
gloves emblazoned with a skeleton pattern,
KFC, BURGER KING, a John Wick-4 poster,
Sberbank, Calzedonia,
Hunkemöller, HUGO,
ECCO…
fatigue
stops the information flow,
and the thoughts take a breather —
freed from everything…
but not for long.
XXXV
i’ve often wondered
why one food item
contains both salt and sugar at the same time,
then i realized:
the one and the other complement each other.
this is a very important principle in everything,
that exists.
recognizing good can only done through evil.
comprehending death can only be done through life.
good — is evil in reverse,
evil — is good in reverse.
death — is the opposite of life,
life — is the opposite of death.
the USA — is Russia contrariwise,
Russia — is the USA contrariwise.
Mozart — is Slipknot backwards,
Slipknot — is Mozart backwards.
health — on the contrary is disease,
disease — on the contrary is health.
war — is the opposite of love,
love — is the opposite of war.
loneliness — is society,
society — is loneliness.
Hitchcock — is Chaplin,
Chaplin — is Hitchcock.
Mussolini — is Gandhi,
Gandhi — is Mussolini.
separation — is gathering,
gathering — is separation.
happiness — misery,
wisdom — stupidity,
yin — yang,
dream — reality…
it’s all one.
XXXVI
we throw poisoned words
at one another,
but we continue to live together,
because
love —
is not the absence of quarrels,
it’s not the ridding of hate,
it’s leaving peanuts on the table:
that you really wanted to eat,
but left for me,
as i love them so much.
XXXVII
my loneliness —
is the entire world,
which reads my poems,
but only one doesn’t, who lives with me.
her loneliness —
is the entire world,
which reads women,
but only one doesn’t, who lives with her.
XXXVIII
a relationship crashes,
where already everything is so bad,
that it exits the boundaries of the home
and wordlessly crashes into the ground
in view of everyone…
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cry-for-help templates,
such as this:
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in your private profile
#iloveozon
XXXIX
a stranger.
black Dr. Martens 1460 boots,
tight jeans,
a dark brown backpack,
tar colored raincoat,
gentle fingers
and a pearl bracelet
(probably TOUS)…
but still the focus of my gaze is
the point connecting the nose and lips.
what am i doing to you?
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