rokanten - амур сдохнет
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амуры любви в канаве,
пьяные.
стрелы их разбились о скалы.
какая жалость.
несутся в электричках все куда то.
косматыми, рыжими, в веснушках и с проседью.
старики играющие в детей
и дети во взрослых.
в закате все тонет,
и меркнет.
прибыли на последнюю станцию.
пиздец настанет в две тысячи тринадцатом.
спускаем на землю пыльные ноги с перрона.
вокруг одни вороны.
каркают и просят податей.
а ты идешь, думая о своем, нелепом.
без света в глазницах.
а ведь в детстве мы радостно так играли в зарницу,
прятки,
если сахарную вату и бегали в парки.
каноническое падение, в лужу.
по дороге от вокзала до дома.
в общественном транспорте ты ощущаешь
всю свою ненависть,
всех своих мудаков.
вокруг точно такое же,
все в оковах.
из окна смотришь на ребят рисующих ватманом,
девушек с розовом и стразах,
бомжей, шлюх, богатых,
и тех кто уповает на свою безумство.
до дома осталось три шага,
вдруг спотыкаешься, падаешь.
головой о землю
и все замолкает.
тихо так, нет даже голоса птиц.
нищие и бабки не ворчат под ухом.
все уплывает.
тухнет.
Amurs of love in the ditch,
Drunk.
Their arrows crashed on the rocks.
what a pity.
Everything is rushing in the electric trains.
shaggy, red, in freckles and with gray hair.
Old people playing children
And children in adults.
Everything is drowning in sunset
And fades.
Arrived at the last station.
Fucked will come to two thousand thirteenth.
We lower the dusty legs from the platform to the ground.
There are only ravens around.
Carry and ask for taxes.
And you go, thinking about your own, absurd.
Without light in the eye sockets.
But in childhood, we joyfully played the Lancer,
hide and seek,
If sugar cotton wool and ran to the parks.
canonical fall, in a puddle.
On the way from the station to the house.
In public transport, you feel
All his hatred
All their assholes.
around exactly the same
All in the shackles.
From the window you look at the guys drawing a waterman,
girls with pink and rhinestones,
homeless people, whores, rich,
And those who trust in their frenzy.
Three steps left to the house
Suddenly you stumble, you are falling.
head on the ground
And everything is silent.
Quietly so, there is not even a voice of birds.
Beggars and grandmas do not grumble under the ear.
Everything floats away.
It goes out.
Drunk.
Their arrows crashed on the rocks.
what a pity.
Everything is rushing in the electric trains.
shaggy, red, in freckles and with gray hair.
Old people playing children
And children in adults.
Everything is drowning in sunset
And fades.
Arrived at the last station.
Fucked will come to two thousand thirteenth.
We lower the dusty legs from the platform to the ground.
There are only ravens around.
Carry and ask for taxes.
And you go, thinking about your own, absurd.
Without light in the eye sockets.
But in childhood, we joyfully played the Lancer,
hide and seek,
If sugar cotton wool and ran to the parks.
canonical fall, in a puddle.
On the way from the station to the house.
In public transport, you feel
All his hatred
All their assholes.
around exactly the same
All in the shackles.
From the window you look at the guys drawing a waterman,
girls with pink and rhinestones,
homeless people, whores, rich,
And those who trust in their frenzy.
Three steps left to the house
Suddenly you stumble, you are falling.
head on the ground
And everything is silent.
Quietly so, there is not even a voice of birds.
Beggars and grandmas do not grumble under the ear.
Everything floats away.
It goes out.
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