Записки на Теле - Дни меланхолии
текст песни

* * * Monday. I'm leaving * * *

Monday morning, steps erase the paving stones of the old, central street.
A woman with a stroller, a hurry, crowding, an old man with an outstretched hand will stoop.
Time is specified by the ringing of two bells with the interval of the tenth of a second.
The sun with all its generosity gives the sensation of the burning fresh flesh.

Pedestrian transitions are subordinate to the broken traffic light, the stripes have been erased for years.
The legs slide along the hot asphalt, towards the fading, living houses.
The bridge wriggle like a humpbacked old man who worked out a turner, a veteran of the World War.
Telephone "Good morning", bones with a creak are succumbing to the desires of the dark side.

* * * Tuesday. I exist * * *

I suddenly felt my right leg was wrapped in a fresh asphalt canvas.
The heat of the degrees of thirty with faded colors of the signs of stores of various trash.
Passers -by are floating in their inner world, based on the handrails of formed points of view.
Trying to idealize my life under the canons of fashion magazines, which I look at with contempt.

Exhibition centers are clogged with paintings by contemporary artists and sculptors over twenty.
Girls hipsters with boys under the pen, artistic bohemia in the spring of the thirteenth.
The blood loss of the open wounds, the skin with pallor resembles a slow killing.
The children of existentialists lie in filled baths with blackened eyes, numbness.

* * * Wednesday. Tone. * * *

The sea is filled with a taste of duffed time, drowning bones.
Seagulls with a bloodthirsty look sit on the pier in search of an idea.
People rub the asphalt with tires, warming up the shell of the path.
The clock is tick, minutes dissolve seconds, mechanisms rot from the inside.

The grass is exhausted by other people's traces, the wind walks, taking through the bodies of the desperate.
Birds without wings, a three -legged kitten froze watching a steam from a teapot.
Lingerie on the rope no longer sways by the wind, the colors creep in the rays of the Teplyma.
The sandboxes are filled with material void, children no longer build sand castles.

* * * Thursday. I'm already 23. * * * *

I have already been twenty -three in the twelfth, with sadness, awareness comes.
Life proceeds with its flowing rivers, in search of the origins of understanding.
Yesterday's twenty -three pages filled the mind with demagogy of their existence.
I was sick of Sartre, from me with the pages of a closed read -read novel.

We did not agree, the era shared the handshakes of wrinkled, flabby fingers.
I was too young, eighteen, he was already an old man and sufferer.
I was sick of people, meaningless suffering, love lawsuits and self -power.
He waited for a meeting with the maiden that he mocked, destroying the ground for love promises.

* * * Friday. Living Dead. * * *

I am alive, I am a dead man, I am an end, a ridge transmitted by the wheel of life.
The muscles no longer feel pain, torn by the tissue, which is covered with the skeleton.
There are two windows in a wooden box and four dense faces clogged with rivets.
A lone poet, a lone tram, takes away the dead from the city for expulsion.

Atrophilized tightly, degrades the brain, the heart does not feel someone else's flesh.
The old quarter collapses, dead souls fill the morgue, and then into the obituary.
Black biomass in mourning rivers floats with the flow towards untouched pastures.
The roads are blocked, crows settled, the city has turned into a living cemetery.