ХТ - Потерять себя
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"Ты паришь в мутках, но ты парень муторный..."
И утром за компьютером, не спав вторые сутки,
Кусаю бутеры, там колбаса и сыр (как-будто бы).
На самом деле - распечатка новых шутеров.
А эти стены серые снова сжимают мою веру
До крошечных размеров, до точки на дисплее.
"Русалочка" Диснея, но мальчики взрослеют -
- И мне моя принцесса снова трепет в асе нервы.
Застои в венах (мля), а ты ещё неблизко.
Мелькают числа и снова виснет Виста.
Листаю Кристофера Приста - "Тиски доктринерства".
Но, если честно, ерунда чисто английская.
Мне как-то класть на всё... забился в своём мире.
Мышиная нора? Ну да... А, нет! Уже крысиная...
Не комната, а подземелье стонов психолиры...
От взоров посторонних глаз укроет паутина...
И в этой депрессивно-накалённой атмосфере
Мои стихи, как стимул лишь ещё во что-то верить.
Шато и штопор, чтобы штопать новые идеи...
Потеря состоянья адекватности - спасенье.
Понедельник. Воскресенье. Понедельник.
По неделе еле-еле утекает время.
Теле2 едва меня пересекает с теми,
В теме кто и кто поймёт всё это стерео.
Разве это жизнь? Одиночество….
Трассы, этажи… И так хочется…
Что-то поменять – не получится…
Снова потерять себя и не мучиться…
"Нааах*й весь рэп... Клэп, биты и сэмплы...
Есть же Centr тут или ФифтиЦент там...
А я, бл*дь, ИксТэ - сельский рифмодрочер
С карявым почерком и прочими побочными...
Точно, мля... " Вот так и думал мальчик Паша.
И "Клинское" на улице Дзержинского еб*шил...
Смотрел куда-то дальше тех деревьев цвета сажи...
Винтажный бит в ушах Олд Скула нашей Раши.
" Не, ну а что... Кому нужны ещё истории
*на сердце неспокойно*, *хаслы с битами бейсбольными*?
И так хватает типов с микро, чё ещё-то липнуть..."
Вокруг всё тихо... Лёгкий ветерок бодрит меня...
Или бурлит та пинта пива, что последней выпита...
Я пропитал тропинки рифмой... лишь бы не забыть себя
На этой улице покрытой первым зимним снегом....
У берега... "Поверь в меня... Тогда и я поверю" -
- Просил я небо... "Либо ты со смной...либо я режу вены"
Потом остыл... Подумал: "Неее...наверно, это вредно" хм
И те посты... Их в урну? Бред, да нет... да ну... не буду.
"Иди поспи" - небес посыл. Всё будет Гуд, друг…
Разве это жизнь? Одиночество….
Трассы, этажи… И так хочется
Что-то поменять – не получится…
Снова потерять себя и не мучиться…
"You are steaming in the torches, but you are a dreary guy ..."
And in the morning at the computer, without sleeping the second day,
I bite boots, there are sausages and cheese (as if it would be).
In fact, a printout of new shooters.
And these gray walls are squeezing my faith again
To tiny sizes, to the point on the display.
Disney's "mermaid", but the boys grow up -
“And my princess is again awe in the ace of the nerves.”
Stagnaries in the veins (blah), and you are still not.
The numbers flicker and the whistle hangs again.
I leaf through the Christopher Sailor - "Visa of Doctrinet."
But, to be honest, the nonsense is purely English.
I somehow put on everything ... I hid in my world.
Mouse hole? Well, yes ... Ah, no! Already rat ...
Not a room, but a dungeon of groans of psycholirs ...
The web will tame from the eyes of prying eyes ...
And in this depressive-nailed atmosphere
My poems, as an incentive, only believe in something.
Chateau and corkscrew to storm new ideas ...
The loss of the consistency of adequacy is salvation.
Monday. Sunday. Monday.
The week is barely flowing out time.
Tele2 barely intersects me with those
In the subject who and who will understand all this is stereo.
Is this life? Loneliness….
Traits, floors ... and so I want ...
Change something-it will not work ...
To lose yourself again and not to suffer ...
"Naaah*th all rap ... CLEP, bits and samples ...
There is a Centr here or a fifetitionent there ...
And I, bl*d, Ikeste - rural rhymodrower
With brown handwriting and other side effects ...
Exactly, blah ... "So the boy Pasha thought.
And "Klinskoye" on Dzerzhinsky Street EB*sewed ...
I looked somewhere further than those trees of soot ...
Vintage bit in the ears of Old the cheek of our rashi.
"No, but what ... who else needs stories
*On the heart is restless*,*hasly with baseball bats*?
And so there are enough types with micro, why still stick ... "
Everything around is quiet ... A light breeze invigorates me ...
Or is the pint of beer that the last drunk ...
I sat the paths with a rhyme ... just not to forget myself
On this street covered with first winter snow ...
Off the shore ... "Believe me ... then I will believe" -
- I asked for the sky ... "Either you and Semna ... or I cut the veins"
Then he cooled down ... I thought: "Nah ... probably, this is harmful" hmm
And those posts ... them in the urn? Nonsense, no ... yes, well ... I will not.
"Go sleep" - heaven message. Everything will be buzzing, friend ...
Is this life? Loneliness….
Highways, floors ... and so I want
Change something-it will not work ...
To lose yourself again and not to suffer ...
And in the morning at the computer, without sleeping the second day,
I bite boots, there are sausages and cheese (as if it would be).
In fact, a printout of new shooters.
And these gray walls are squeezing my faith again
To tiny sizes, to the point on the display.
Disney's "mermaid", but the boys grow up -
“And my princess is again awe in the ace of the nerves.”
Stagnaries in the veins (blah), and you are still not.
The numbers flicker and the whistle hangs again.
I leaf through the Christopher Sailor - "Visa of Doctrinet."
But, to be honest, the nonsense is purely English.
I somehow put on everything ... I hid in my world.
Mouse hole? Well, yes ... Ah, no! Already rat ...
Not a room, but a dungeon of groans of psycholirs ...
The web will tame from the eyes of prying eyes ...
And in this depressive-nailed atmosphere
My poems, as an incentive, only believe in something.
Chateau and corkscrew to storm new ideas ...
The loss of the consistency of adequacy is salvation.
Monday. Sunday. Monday.
The week is barely flowing out time.
Tele2 barely intersects me with those
In the subject who and who will understand all this is stereo.
Is this life? Loneliness….
Traits, floors ... and so I want ...
Change something-it will not work ...
To lose yourself again and not to suffer ...
"Naaah*th all rap ... CLEP, bits and samples ...
There is a Centr here or a fifetitionent there ...
And I, bl*d, Ikeste - rural rhymodrower
With brown handwriting and other side effects ...
Exactly, blah ... "So the boy Pasha thought.
And "Klinskoye" on Dzerzhinsky Street EB*sewed ...
I looked somewhere further than those trees of soot ...
Vintage bit in the ears of Old the cheek of our rashi.
"No, but what ... who else needs stories
*On the heart is restless*,*hasly with baseball bats*?
And so there are enough types with micro, why still stick ... "
Everything around is quiet ... A light breeze invigorates me ...
Or is the pint of beer that the last drunk ...
I sat the paths with a rhyme ... just not to forget myself
On this street covered with first winter snow ...
Off the shore ... "Believe me ... then I will believe" -
- I asked for the sky ... "Either you and Semna ... or I cut the veins"
Then he cooled down ... I thought: "Nah ... probably, this is harmful" hmm
And those posts ... them in the urn? Nonsense, no ... yes, well ... I will not.
"Go sleep" - heaven message. Everything will be buzzing, friend ...
Is this life? Loneliness….
Highways, floors ... and so I want
Change something-it will not work ...
To lose yourself again and not to suffer ...