Our past has became the future for my lonely unlived years.
I am going, stunned by the foreboding of my heart, by the inertia
of fruitless life. Shadows of memories fall on my sick memory,
sinless and alienated. Vacation of oblivion begins in such a way.
Trees stand no one knows why, eyes haven’t noticed them before,
and the wind and the rain remind a deck, sailors; the fate and
the sea - all is united, and here and there I don’t feel soil under
my feet. And now winter storms black color and throws a white
flag, the war is over, doubts and difficulties as well, I continue
to live in the deaf hopeless world, and I surrender at victor’s
mercy that stepped on the land of my frightened soul.
And wait, and know that a new day will betray and surprise until a tear like
a ladybug crawls through the streets of your eyelashes like a turtle , you will
gain wings, it will fly up, and in the reflection of heaven harden in the emptiness
of painted summer like an apprehension, nonexistence, uprising of forgotten
sensations. Unquestioning love and truth and when hung
on bare wires winds, they are solving mysteries of bloodless evenings,
and of memory, and of silence with a foreboding, with a pen of destiny.
Unhurried reality comes with a walk of ant thoughts, a shameless
charwoman, fell behind the times not by the heart failure
but by the curiously of green, living over the autumn abyss. To fall and
to come back forced by the dream, to snuggle to the verbal angels,
and come and assign flowers to touch-me-nots of dreams, and life, that
doesn’t look like life, to see and agree to mercy.
Later, recently, early, forgotten. You put your ear to the sea
sink and start listening to the beating of her heart, wait,
hold on, where are you, aren’t you besides, why are you so, my heart,
scaring me? Don’t force, if you don’t calm down, I will get you out of
the chest and, while I will be listening to the heart of my beloved,
you won’t return you home. I am leaving my memory forever, why do I need
this confusion of hopes and forebodings, overheard by the sky and peeped
by my memories. When the phone dials my number, I will not answer,
I will pretend not to hear, because it’s me, who is calling myself, I’d like
to remind myself `about you, as if you accidentally dialed the number
of your memory, and here you are in my hands. Wait, and I'll answer, and this signal -
a connecting thread between what has already been and what will never happen.
Nevertheless it was, and now it is rolling inside me like a fireball through
my veins and burns with a fiery passion of the accomplished, of what happened,
by the unaffordable luxury of possession in the sunken consciousness
where there is neither the time nor the present, where there is no me, there is only
the image of loss, a fixed shadow of the past, entangled in the web of
You see , dear, I don’t know why I'm tired to love , maybe
summer has come early and spring in its bloom like a snowstorm
swept over the head with a grayness of wasted events. I'm trying to
love by memory, call habits like a kindness, those that in the last
life stood on the sand like fabulous castles. Never mind that the wave
of time washed them away - I bewitched them , and they are still as strong as
Antonov apples in the garden that don’t fall to the ground in September.
Only autumn with its own longing puts the hands apart for separation, it’s
so familiar in October on the way to the parking lot , to the hibernating.
Unforgivably quiet. Time goes on tiptoes for you, and makes a noise,
and puffs up, and flies galloping for me. You're still young, evening
doesn’t touch your gentle eyes with its sleepy hand. In the distant land,
where a lonely dream lives easily, you don’t exist, and a tired heart
is wearing an inconspicuous dress of the humdrum life and doesn’t know
why you are going on a rope into the impenetrable wilderness
over the abyss of childhood – just stumble, fall, perhaps nameless rivers
will conversely flow. But beaches are standing and bearing a guard duty,
and no one will escape from their gazes, don’t be afraid, they don’t exist,
it's just a fate, here and there, and everywhere, and
only it measures movements of the course, each step, yours and mine, one
side of life, and humility doesn’t exist, there is an inertia of time, lasting race
of impartial minutes, and wheels are spinning, and creaking and regret
about it, and going along the stage of mysterious years. Here is the moon
with an antique smile in gilt and bronze froze on the satin night height of the sky
of our hopes, stars are nearby, the Milky Way is covered with smoke, this exhibition
is called life, there even a happiness can to be found as opportunity offers.
Have a walk, look around, you can become a showpiece, but better the audience,
and indeed, it’s up to you.
your life you want to be look like others, thirsting, passionate,
who took the geographical location as absolute, as the endless
point of happiness on the way of frustration, a bookplate of human
senses, having recognized the defeat of tin soldiers fleeing from
the ship of weekdays, poisoned with a consciousness of innocence
to the events of the unbridled era.
out of stellar honeycombs of the night dew, life appealed to us
on You by Chagall’s dream, by Klimt's gold. And Babylon of love was
falling at your feet, a funny Paris, and it was our mystery, and the
rain on the buttons of homeless roofs was playing a melody of
longing, and this casual talk was overheard by my temples, and the bell
was sounding inside me at the concert hall of silence where I was hiding
from the spring, and a candle of the moon was melting, and srearine
was dripping with a white tear, and the dawn was growing with the Eiffel
Tower, and Van Gogh was drawing the morning not with a mad brush,
but with a chalk.
painfully close in spirit and doubts to me, I submit your claims, as they do
not burn in the fire. Human nature has a vicious face of passions, you lived
with them, you cherished them, then scattered on the ground but seedings
are gathered by people, Well, and how we can convict them now if blood
doesn’t flow through the veins of past life, when in a cherished secret
darkness, in a perishable pawn shop, their daily lives are resting like
receipts, a different way is prepared for them, we can’t live another's fates,
when obelisks of hope found their peace in the damp earth. You can’t take
advantage of it, can’t secure a grip on love, when our children grow up,
when now not we are responsible for them, but powerful feelings of dream
with which they're on “you”.
under the weight of time, on the window-sill of dreams it brought up cactuses
of memories and settled Bonaparte’s nightmare of gutless history into tired
hearts. Each life has its own island, its own expulsion into the sorrow, ruthless
apostle of destiny, night patrol of dumb questions, cities of memories, where
the shadows of years call us for a visit at the stations before and after, where
the years of silence blossom. Paris, you breathe this air by memory, you turn
people's hearts into ashes again and again, and the blood runs cold in Seine.
of destiny is ready to sail, and it has been sailing for a long time already.
There is no France any more, no Paris, and your disfigured spirit is shouting
out of the chest as a seagull: I will not see you any more! – but the stone
city is silent. Gauguin is tired, he can hear speechless sounds of stars, oh,
your coast, Tahiti, tortures of dying painting. And a mix of colors will come
true and it will be for sure, but don’t believe the painters, and a paintbrush,
what is a paintbrush, just Devil secretly sleeps in it, and after awaking, he
Having wasted pathetic hopes you come back to Paris, and like the naked
River Seine, lie under the lived sky. Nobody's station, nobody's museum,
paintings, people who are more agile, not all are based in d’Orsay, and indeed,
eternity has it’s own sleepy sight at the crazy tribe of the killed creative
soldiers who perceived unearthly time, its obsession flattery, a swarm of
disappointments and triumphs. Well, how are you there? And we receive
the answer – but all of us are here.
parishioner, all night taking care of the soul, while the last star was
shining brightly and vibrantly, praying, begging for the forgiveness from
heaven and a gift for Venice. Everyone was waiting for the Last Judgement.
The time was tossing like a butterfly, and all the misgivings and fears
came true, and the immense love to the space, to the Gothic and glory
was lying on the chopping block of fate.
eye. Term of hopes and dreams is over, and underwater kingdom of shadows
is waiting for you in this city exactly not like the ocean bottom of a goggle-eyed
diver. The hotel looks like a otherworldly stray dog. Powerless magnet of the
past life is pulling a barge of centuries, like a dog sled of winds, and a guide
of the wordy history is standing at the stern and speaking sadly Russian with
me about Russia, as if nothing had happened. Someone’s idle escape is over
here by the curious truth of sufferings, a man, filled with a folly of troubles,
comprehends the fright of generations, and he throws the coins of delight into
the broken moneybox of memory, and they melt, like a spoiled, chilled to the
bone snow in the wet weather. It remains just to endure, to send postcards
home with a promise to return and to find a long awaited for the heart peace.
hiding somewhere and again crawling with a turtle’s reason to the
immutable, fragile and eternal foundation of a non-existent being. Venice,
where are you and who are your guests , why do you excite the peace
of clouds that fall with the sunken chest on the water of bottomless channels
like the consumption of centuries? One dock after another, harmonica
of autumn winds is playing , ink stains are flowing down the stars in the
frantic fear of night squares. Come on, go away , don’t wait for the mercy,
now everything will start, the dawn will pierce into the crucifixion of glory,
and the city will disappear , and all will return to the normal course of years.
in the eventual world. The city also is going mad. Due to the long oldness,
due to the eternal oldness, tiredness comes, and slavery darkness returns
the way to eyes, a counter day, where night reigns and emptiness lives.
Channels, like rats, run away off the ship. Venice is drowning, there is a
crowding on the square, and shadows, like leeches dig into the body of
painful streets, and night is burning out like a candle in front of the eyes,
and the sun is rising over the abyss of fear, it just has a lack of patience to
write down on the clear water by samples in words of Bakh call-up notes
to freedom, to salvation, in order not to leave the city alone in trouble.
While the stars of Venetian night are whispering, just send by mail in the black
envelope with a postage stamp of epigone a return address of silence with an
obedient handwriting of water, that was leaking under the balcony in the pale
seasons of dawns, when rays were coming down from the sky on the opera
scene like a ballet and creating with the power of dance incomprehensible
stories on the glossy fate of a carriage, that was going past the life of my
Wordless pain of sensations flowing down the road of anguish through the
veins, through the channels of the last days, and the unpainted city bursts into
the memory, illuminated by the blood libel. You toss a coin, not believing that
you will return. Between the heaven and the sky, reflected in the frozen
eyeballs of mad waters, you pass like an outcast, like a crusader who betrayed
his home. All the victories are not counted, and you are distributing the bows
to this barbarous turn of the centuries as a feed for gulls and blind pigeons,
those homeless fops, that our ancestors forgot on the Mark square in their
last frightened year. Insatiable time, slavery of everlasting debt. You can go
mad because of seen here on a large distance outlines.
Blind faith. Yes, blind. In vain the silence complains. The gates of
Paradise are wide-open. The back pains ruthlessly. One more moment, and Abraham
will drop the knife not in the heart of his son.
– Whose idea is it?
– Yours, Abraham.
– Please, my King... - and he trailed off and it blurted out - I will not give him to you!
And the whole Abraham’s life flashed in this earnest speech. And the human weakness,
father’s unbridled passion eclipsed his soul. But it was only a moment, the flight of the
universal mystery from expectation to impatience, into that year, which didn’t break the
move of God's achievements. And somewhere nearby the lamb struggled, and the angel
stopped the knife. He came, no, He was seen in a dream, squatted childishly down.
– Here I am.
– All in the past. Bring the sacrifice and come back home. And present yourself
to the world, let everyone know that I am with you. At this bitter frontal place, on the top
of the spirit, of the celebration, where you didn’t spare your son in the name of faith,
where you understood – this land is not for those who lose their heart, and all your rights
to son, your first child, your favorite, gave to the Creator, to the Architect, and was able
to be born again, and led to the crown not only the soul's your son, but all the people,
which, believe me, Abraham, for a hundred years ahead I will multiply and will tie myself
with an eternal vow, as you had tied your son with love.
There will be a lot of you. You'll shine like stars, along the milky way. And the idea that
ran like a gray mouse in your tormented consciousness, doesn’t count. I'm sorry, I see
all your sufferings without exception. How dare you to assume that you didn’t fulfill your
duty to the end, Abraham, an adherent of faith! And your feelings of a father only for
a moment won. You fully demonstrated your commitment to the covenant, and you got
the hump in vain. Oh, if it wasn’t so, believe me, I would call you to account.
TOWARDS THE DAWN
Comfortless country. In the equation and only
systems. In every gesture: “I myself”. Songs
with faces of heroes. Extramarital son of the wind
in the field lived as a homeless Marx. Our
common enemy didn’t nap. So, we ate
a peck of salt, whether foolish, or just so. Father
Frost collected us from booze to booze. Everybody
knew about a red nose, and lived by the calendar.
And when the Chime with battle reimbursed New
Year’s Day, we were waiting for a new dawn. “Ogonek”
was teasing geese. Congress put the question squarely, and
everyone shouted over the country that it ruled us
not correctly, and it’s time to change the Primer.
Embraces were being handed out. A rain mowed down by the wind was dying. November
was seeing off the autumn wearing a modest dress. A new flame was
out of the tiles. The Commissioners were gathering the warmth of the careless stars
bit by bit from the table. Better times were being waited for. Executioners were
telling fortunes over a promised glory. And sunrises got on not left but right leg
just for us to live better. From a happy childhood and a bloody banner
we inherited the dust of forgotten names. This world long-liver,
the author of our betrayals, proposed us to forget them and for this in exchange
took for us a heap of new events in captivity from the forthcoming one.
Masters’ hands amused a little, and on the canvas, off-white out of boredom, colors
of the earth laid, inaccessible to the eye and heart, - those that we couldn’t save
for ourselves. Homeless songs, stooping, the oppression of expectations was hard,
just started up for a moment and went away, unlikely someone will find them
right now. Cities offended the passers. Wastelands of loneliness were waiting
for guests. Carrion-crows pecked the luck. Unlike itself, dream-scatterbrain
was roaming. Nights rouged the parting, nothing left from the past words,
we were living the science of tired life, our only one sweet draught.
One meter, in a hat acock, scored a goat with
a hangover. In the cradle of revolution was languishing
a proud lilac. On the hearth Emelja was sitting,
guarding yesterday. Desdemona was stifled for nothing.
A dawn of prostitution was rising over the country.
Everybody, who wasn’t lazy, committed a sin. The closest
to the law were those who went off the top of head.
The Party cell was dismissed. But the instinct was forgotten.
And exactly then everybody took to the bottle.
Only Lenin didn’t drink.
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