Zplka - зарифмованная лента
текст песни

Joseph Beuys and his cello.
I’m kicking the guests out early today.
Today was an open house.
And tomorrow—a day of mourning and children’s tears.
Pierre Cernée’s "Partisan Tea"
Gets laughed right out of town in the Ural climate—
And it doesn't matter where that tea was actually drunk.
Pierre Cernée is as exquisite as our Malachite.
Pu-erh invigorates; we’re square now—you’re shot down.
Board games morph into flirtation.
The search for autonomous zones within imperial totality.
A conversation on "normality."
Sent into space—
In such a fucking epic fashion,
That I got accidentally blasted so hard, I vanished.
And whatever you lose out there in the cosmos—
Is lost forever.
Matter is a trip.
Time is priceless.
Sister Wendy waxes on about Rothko.
Mother Teresa: a terrorist threat.
At the very least—a cult of the grotesque.
I’m just spouting off about whatever.
I’m neither contagious nor a saint.
I’m nothing at all—
Like water.
Tasteless. Music.
Ringing in your ears—oh my!
I’m zoning out, Nam June Paik-style.
In the kitchen.
Staring at the TV, eating fruit.
Be careful with nostalgia—
Flirting with moments of past feelings,
Thereby limiting the present.
The loud crunch of apples rings in my ears.
I’m not saying you have to forget them,
Or that you shouldn’t cherish them.
I’m talking about that endless immersion in the past—
A way to hide from the fear of the unknown present.
Meanwhile, on the tube—
A mask stares back at me.
They’re shelling the White House with a tank.
My neighbor died; I feel neither pain nor pity.
The fruit is gone. Time for bed. Time for my blankie. I dream that I’m boiling photographs,
Scraping them against the floor, against the rough walls.
There’s so little light from the lamp in the kitchen,
And sitting at the table is someone bearded.
It’s a pity the light isn't brighter; otherwise, I’d have recognized him—caught him—
An anti-image sucked into its own portal:
The absence of the material world all around,
A collapsing black hole,
And that bitch, too.
The darkness from my retinas has eaten through my brain in this dream;
There’s a hole in the back of my head, and darkness in the silence.
Angels run everywhere with wet rags;
Everything has gone completely to shit.
And I’m glad.
A train off a bridge—*smash!*
My long, drawn-out scream plunges into the abyss.
I’m an alcoholic now, drowning my eyeballs in booze;
I don’t give a fuck about anything.
I look like shit, I smell like shit;
I’ve got debts and a hard-on—I’m a total prick.
But having one less prick in the world...
That’s not an option.
I’ll be like Yuri Nikulin, full of melancholy;
I’ll be like that weakling Nagovitsyn;
I’ll be like that biggest guy of all—
The one who just can’t ever seem to get drunk enough.
I’ll recite my lines with *this* exact intonation;
Let them say I sound just like Krovostok.
I don’t give a fuck about any of your authorities—
This is how I wanted it, and this is how I made it happen.
I don’t see the need to stress myself out over it.
Well... that’s enough.
See you around, guys.
Grace.