Early poetry

The security service is poor

* * *

The security service  is poor, 
dead parrot lives in the cage, 
I drink with a smile to the bottom 
a spit-covered paradise of my routine. 
Bad weather is outside the window long, 
But I am still led somewhere. 
From the glass with a broken bottom 
emptiness flows over the edge.


As out of a nest, from the time I fell out

* * * 

As out of a nest, from the time I fell out,
began to eat the garbage of memories.
Who were besides, also were lost,
then found a path to nowhere. If
we don’t exist, life seems madly long.
Monotony has its own metronome. And the bridge
that led from night to morning was rotten, but fording
we can’t pass the darkness. We are invisible,
and recognize each other by the voice. We aren’t
confused by the eternity of emptiness.

Clapping of dead hands

* * *

Clapping of dead hands,
adagio of windless butterflies.
From places, where you are now,
it’s hard to serve. Forgive,
so far from each other we haven’t
been so long. Grimaces of the day,
a painful fright of mute
memories in concert disturbs
the silence of others’ partings. Foyer
in a shabby coat touches the final
with its shoulder, and a silhouette
of your discreet phrases talks
with friends about nothing,
but it’s only a foreplay to that
empty room, where without words 
the night is huddling to. I hesitate.
Each step on the road leads
to you, and nobody can help.

Because of the long meditations, because of the silence around

* * *

Because of the long meditations, because of the silence around
it becomes so uncomfortable and damp, and gradually, suddenly, 
by chance a shadow appears or what’s been left of you, and 
settles down in your own apartment. The city, 
like “Titanic”, falls to the bottom, and into this temporary 
home the window looks with a shapeless glance 
which yesterday beat the sunset to the blood. The streets, 
like a herd of sheep, scattered in all directions, I hear, 
the alleys are marching proudly, and slowly, 
like Jesuits, tap water is sharpening the mind,  
not sparing itself. Lifeless solar ray is falling to the ground, 
the wind hunted by a beast is howling and howling. 
Everything is upside down. And the clouds of unmade beds are
above the head, which is not necessary to make.

Unrecognized being. The road like a whip

* * *

Unrecognized being. The road like a whip. 
Those who can’t be returned – can’t hear the last rites. 
Life is a waiting room, people are crowded. 
The star fell like an early spring, and here 
you are waiting for departure to unknown area, 
by patience, experience yourself by patience. 
The wind is flying along the music book 
and birds are chirping like little children. 
At all the stops there are farewell sights, 
we are flying for a reward like a ladybug.


There is no beginning everywhere and nowhere

There is no beginning everywhere and nowhere, 
Balzac age remains of women. 
Night is inside, night sleeps on the black water, 
this is a routine of mind, the universal prose. 
No, Isaac, not the winds shake Foucault, 
but a pre-dawn distance, 
like an iceberg of the cold morning, 
floats by the same laws from the darkness of soul, 
and it’s already far away, and the book of eternal love
Kamasutra looks at everything with anxiety.