Dedicated to Yuli Kitaevich, my beloved friend, the author of many of my poems

The flesh is fading.

Dust evaporates.

The years have gone

for a slow dinner.

And it's nice to think

what was it anyway

and someone even needed it.

I feel sorry for Marx: his legacy

fell into a Russian font:

here the end justifies the means,

and the means beat the end.

For the benefit of the hegemonic class,

so that he reigns relentlessly,

at any moment available to shmona

individual hegemon.

The layer of man in us is a little bit

layered unsteadily and anxiously;

it is easy to return us to the cattle,

it's very hard to get back up.

Forever we erected a monument

madness, ruin and loss,

by experimenting with blood

brought negative result.

I am young, in the remnants of snot,

I'm afraid, shaking life like a pear:

in their souls it is dark, as in the ass,

and in the ass - itching to amuse the soul.

crushing, crushing and crushing,

fear reproduces itself

grows and feeds itself.

When history bleeds

whistles to souls and powers,

one - a slug crawls into a hole,

the other is swollen with a boa constrictor.

Good, not rejecting the means of evil,

on them and reaps the results;

in a paradise where resin is applied,

archangels are hoofed and horned.

When fear swirls pitch

and the barking of chases pierces the darkness,

blessed is anyone who dares

do not blow out the fire in yourself.

Provided with a common phrase,

hostile to life and nature,

with lack of freedom, scum and evil spirits

freer to become a shepherd.

Freedom, looking impartially,

then only becomes necessary,

when there is space inside of me

larger than the outer chamber.

By blood penetrating to the roots,

piercing the air of the sky,

bondage corrupts us more,

than the most dissolute freedom.

We inherited from our grandfathers today

indifferent shadow of fatigue -

historical fatigue

demonic generation.

The spirit of the times, though not warlike,

still its bloody surf;

committing suicide,

utopias pull us along.

Pen and eye holding in union,

I do not eat my bread in vain:

Russia - Gordian bathroom

the most pressing current problems.

I'm afraid of any trumpet howls,

looking habitually and soberly:

good, bitching in the excitement of the struggle,

glares sharply and briskly.

I was lucky: I knew the country

the one and only in the world

in your own captivity

in your living apartment.

Where they lie to themselves and to each other,

and memory does not serve the mind,

history goes around

from blood - through mud - into darkness.

Blossom terry and stubbornly

fruits of progress seeds:

the snobbery of the plebeian, the swagger of the boor,

shit arrogance.

In the years of corruption, lies and fear

narrow scope:

forbidden jokes below the groin

and thoughts above dick.

Not close to history, but familiar,

I see our glory very clearly:

we have become an unquenchable beacon,

shining on a course where it's dangerous.

Leading parties and classes,

leaders never understood

that the idea thrown to the masses -

this is a girl thrown into the regiment.

Familiar, silent people,

soundless cocks crow;

we are created for happiness and freedom,

like a fish - for flight and fish soup.

All social systems

from hierarchy to brotherhood -

knocking foreheads about problems

freedom, equality and fornication.

Appointed cup on time to drink,

Russia - a lesson and concern to everyone -

crucified like Christ to redeem

the universal mortal sin of reorganization.

In extreme situations, any

confused, anxious and hot,

calm confidence of the blind

more nightmarish than the confusion of the sighted.

Whatever the century, we are clearer and more audible

through the anguish of the liberal howl:

there is no more dangerous and there is no more harmful,

than freedom without a guard at all.

Us book of life is a darkness of strife

separates in every line,

and those who know do not know disputes -

they fuck us one by one.

In us, the pulse beats at the temple

mental turmoil evil coolness;

there is longing in the Russian spree,

easily inclined to ferocity.

Close your eyes, close your ears,

counting life for alms,

we break when they don't choke,

savor it as a boon.

Having sleep, food and work,

fate and power are not crossed,

and we are mercilessly fucked,

for which they then treat for free.

Roads to Russian bad weather

flowed through faith and fun;

the more collective way to happiness,

the worse the general hangover.

Years of unrighteous persecution

ooze the invisible juice of infection,

and in the spirit of future generations

creeping deaf metastases.

Personally, I am both servile and cruel,

and as long as it is my nature,

democracy is an artificial flower,

non-living without protection and care.

Life is easy and fun

though disgustingly unheard of,

when everything is clear in the era

and everything is just as hopeless.

There is one mysterious theme,

pertaining to our souls:

the crazier the decrepit system,

the more dangerous it is to destroy it at once.

Comfort and peace grace

the simplest is limited by the limit:

it is dangerous to call black black,

and white is dangerous to call white.

The fate of the Russian evil spell

we are friends with science today,

smarter and thinner Janissaries

and they wear civilian clothes.

Russian character is famous in the world,

it is explored everywhere

it is so strangely vast,

that he yearns for a bridle.

Winter doesn't turn into summer

on the rivers ice drift in the spring is frantic,

and bridges collapse, and remember this

useful for Russian optimists.

Dreams cherished by the ancestors

fed us before the time,

and it's a pity that only leftovers

of them remain now.

Life has its own, different shade,

and your sense of life

when the dungeon is involved

in all its manifestations.

Neither laughter nor sin can do us

turn from the path of the brave,

Dedicated to Yuli Kitaevich, my beloved friend, the author of many of my poems

The flesh is fading.

Dust evaporates.

The years have gone

for a slow dinner.

And it's nice to think

what was it anyway

and someone even needed it.

1
HOW IT IS SIMPLE TO TAKE FREEDOM FROM THE PEOPLE: IT SHOULD JUST BE TRUSTED BY THE PEOPLE

* * *

I feel sorry for Marx: his legacy

fell into a Russian font:

here the end justifies the means,

and the means beat the end.

* * *

For the benefit of the hegemonic class,

so that he reigns relentlessly,

at any moment available to shmona

individual hegemon.

* * *

The layer of man in us is a little bit

layered unsteadily and anxiously;

it is easy to return us to the cattle,

it's very hard to get back up.

* * *

Forever we erected a monument

madness, ruin and loss,

by experimenting with blood

brought negative results.

* * *

I am young, in the remnants of snot,

I'm afraid, shaking life like a pear:

in their souls it is dark, as in the ass,

and in the ass - itching to amuse the soul.

* * *

crushing, crushing and crushing,

fear reproduces itself

grows and feeds itself.

* * *

When history bleeds

whistles to souls and powers,

one - a slug crawls into a hole,

the other is swollen with a boa constrictor.

* * *

Good, not rejecting the means of evil,

on them and reaps the results;

in a paradise where resin is applied,

archangels are hoofed and horned.

* * *

When fear swirls pitch

and the barking of chases pierces the darkness,

blessed is anyone who dares

do not blow out the fire in yourself.

* * *

Provided with a common phrase,

hostile to life and nature,

with lack of freedom, scum and evil spirits

freer to become a shepherd.

* * *

Freedom, looking impartially,

then only becomes necessary,

when there is space inside of me

larger than the outer chamber.

* * *

By blood penetrating to the roots,

piercing the air of the sky,

bondage corrupts us more,

than the most dissolute freedom.

* * *

We inherited from our grandfathers today

indifferent shadow of fatigue -

historical fatigue

demonic generation.

* * *

The spirit of the times, though not warlike,

still its bloody surf;

committing suicide,

utopias pull us along.

* * *

Pen and eye holding in union,

I do not eat my bread in vain:

Russia - Gordian bathroom

the most pressing current problems.

* * *

I'm afraid of any trumpet howls,

looking habitually and soberly:

good, bitching in the excitement of the struggle,

glares sharply and briskly.

* * *

I was lucky: I knew the country

the one and only in the world

in your own captivity

in your living apartment.

* * *

Where they lie to themselves and to each other,

and memory does not serve the mind,

history goes around

from blood - through mud - into darkness.

* * *

Blossom terry and stubbornly

fruits of progress seeds:

the snobbery of the plebeian, the swagger of the boor,

shit arrogance.

* * *

In the years of corruption, lies and fear

narrow scope:

forbidden jokes below the groin

and thoughts above dick.

* * *

Not close to history, but familiar,

I see our glory very clearly:

we have become an unquenchable beacon,

shining on a course where it's dangerous.

* * *

Leading parties and classes,

leaders never understood

that the idea thrown to the masses -

this is a girl thrown into the regiment.

* * *

Familiar, silent people,

soundless cocks crow;

we are created for happiness and freedom,

like a fish - for flight and fish soup.

* * *

All social systems

from hierarchy to brotherhood -

knocking foreheads about problems

freedom, equality and fornication.

* * *

Appointed cup on time to drink,

Russia - a lesson and concern to everyone -

crucified like Christ to redeem

the universal mortal sin of reorganization.

* * *

In extreme situations, any

confused, anxious and hot,

calm confidence of the blind

more nightmarish than the confusion of the sighted.

* * *

Whatever the century, we are clearer and more audible

through the anguish of the liberal howl:

there is no more dangerous and there is no more harmful,

than freedom without a guard at all.

* * *

Us book of life is a darkness of strife

separates in every line,

and those who know do not know disputes -

they fuck us one by one.

* * *

In us, the pulse beats at the temple

mental turmoil evil coolness;

there is longing in the Russian spree,

easily inclined to ferocity.

* * *

Close your eyes, close your ears,

counting life for alms,

we break when they don't choke,

savor it as a boon.

* * *

Having sleep, food and work,

fate and power are not crossed,

and we are mercilessly fucked,

for which they then treat for free.

* * *

Roads to Russian bad weather

flowed through faith and fun;

the more collective way to happiness,

the worse the general hangover.

* * *

Years of unrighteous persecution

ooze the invisible juice of infection,

and in the spirit of future generations

creeping deaf metastases.

* * *

Personally, I am both servile and cruel,

and as long as it is my nature,

democracy is an artificial flower,

non-living without protection and care.

* * *

Life is easy and fun

though disgustingly unheard of,

when everything is clear in the era

and everything is just as hopeless.

* * *

There is one mysterious theme,

pertaining to our souls:

the crazier the decrepit system,

the more dangerous it is to destroy it at once.

* * *

Comfort and peace grace

the simplest is limited by the limit:

it is dangerous to call black black,

and white is dangerous to call white.

* * *

The fate of the Russian evil spell

we are friends with science today,

smarter and thinner Janissaries

and they wear civilian clothes.

* * *

Russian character is famous in the world,

it is explored everywhere

it is so strangely vast,

that he yearns for a bridle.

* * *

Winter doesn't turn into summer

on the rivers ice drift in the spring is frantic,

and bridges collapse, and remember this

useful for Russian optimists.

* * *

Dreams cherished by the ancestors

fed us before the time,

and it's a pity that only leftovers

of them remain now.

* * *

Life has its own, different shade,

and your sense of life

when the dungeon is involved

in all its manifestations.

* * *

Neither laughter nor sin can do us

turn from the path of the brave,

we build happiness for everyone at once,

and we don't care about anyone.

* * *

Outskirts, provinces of the soul,

where is our abomination, baseness and darkness,

waiting years for the moment. And the descendants

then they wonder how fascism arose.

* * *

I'm afraid that where the darkness is clubbing,

where are the secret springs and entrances,

mass suicidal instinct

waters the roots of the tree of freedom.

* * *

Any can be pestilence porridge

to start with the youth of the Gorlopansky,

which the Second World

already a little confused with the Trojan.

2
AMONG THE INCREDIBLE VICTORIES OF CIVILIZATION WE ARE ALONE AS CARP IN THE SEWER

* * *

Any of us, until he died,

puts itself in pieces

from intelligence, sex, humor

and relationship with the authorities.

* * *

someday, afterwards, later,

but even in the primers they will put a line,

what was done en masse and herd

disentangles each one alone.

* * *

From birth, I am painfully bifurcated,

rushing from extreme to end

my own mother is harmony,

and the dissonance father.

* * *

Between rumors, fairy tales, myths,

just lies, legends and opinions

we are at enmity hotter than the Scythians

for the dissimilarity of delusions.

* * *

The aging children are swarming

everyone has tragedy and drama,

and I watch these performances

and lonely as Adam's dick.

* * *

I can't go on with this life

and breaking up with her is excruciatingly difficult;

the hardest thing to leave

us from where it is impossible to live.

* * *

In the hearts of someone rude,

awful, probably

once out of your mind

and don't log back in.

* * *

Everyone to himself - deaf doors,

his own criminal and judge,

himself and Mozart, and Salieri,

himself and an acorn, and a pig.

* * *

We are addicted to words -

not at all a whim and not a mania;

we need words

for lies of mutual understanding.

* * *

Now enjoying, then mourning,

following the path of any

be yourself, not you

put in for another.

* * *

In your image and spirit

The Creator sculpted us, creating the origins,

and we keep like Him

And maybe that's why you're so alone.

* * *

Do not jump with the century on a par,

Be human;

you won't be in hell

together with the age.

* * *

I look without complaining, like in autumn

blew the eyelids on white strands,

and see with the same pleasure

fortune buttocks are ripe.

* * *

Pouring into the earthly time stream

by coincidence,

any one of us is so lonely

that happy from any connections.

* * *

Is it not in vain that knowledge is useless

do we disturb our drowsy spirit?

Those who look into the abyss

she looks too.

* * *

There is much happiness in clear faith

with her heavy load light,

Yes, it's a pity that in a clean atmosphere

unbearable to my heavy lungs.

* * *

Though the excitement is sweet

go on two roads at once,

not with one deck of cards

play with the devil and with God.

* * *

It's not easy to think high

soaring with the soul in the interstellar worlds,

when around at the very side

sniff, gnaw and spoil the air.

* * *

We share time and cash

we share vodka, bread, lodging,

but the more distinct the personality,

topics lonely man.

* * *

And vile, and vile, and vile,

and the fear that you will become infected with swine,

and the redneck goes astray

and happily bestial unity.

* * *

None of the closest in captivity

not included in my experiences,

I keep my spiritual calluses

from loving sympathetic galoshes.

* * *

Separations whistle at the door,

I sit at the table lonely,

champagne blood boys

become barrels of beer.

* * *

Cultivating a spirit garden,

grunts humanitarian elite,

tormented by pain for the people

and changes of migraine and colitis.

* * *

With the success of science is inconsistent,

and whining - and try to drown out -

my inoperable ulcer

at the bottom of a non-existent soul.

* * *

This thought is a stolen flower

just a rhyme won't hurt her:

man is not alone!

Someone is always watching him.

* * *

With a soul split like a hoof,

I am alien to both fatherlands -

Jew, where the anti-Semites are chasing,

and Russian, where they sin with Zionanism.

* * *

Closer circle. Less and less meetings.

Losses and separation fly;

there are no others, and those are far away,

and who is weak, goes to bitches.

* * *

The god of technology is different from the god of science;

art god - other than the god of war;

and God of love weakening hands

over them stretches from on high.

* * *

So much to pay

as long as life goes on,

that one should thank fate

for cases where you pay for your own.

* * *

In our jungle, fierce and stone,

I'm not afraid of old villains,

but I fear the innocent and the righteous,

selfless, holy and innocent.

* * *

The sons leave with their tails up,

and daughters languish, sitting at home;

we plant seeds, grow flowers,

and after only the buttocks we see.

* * *

When mediocrity is teeming around,

laying down your cliché on life,

outcast hides elitism,

very useful to the soul.

* * *

I feel sorry for this blue sky,

sorry for the earth and life fragments;

I'm scared that well-fed pigs

scarier than hungry wolves.

* * *

Friends are always a little picky.

And they tend to laugh.

Friends are always a little annoying.

Like fidelity and certainty.

* * *

The Lord has sown us like a vegetable garden,

but in the thickets of plants He grows,

we are divided into many breeds,

partially incompatible.

* * *

I live alone and hunched over

friends have died or are serving,

and where harmony flashed to me,

others will just find their ass.

* * *

With my departure, the seam will stretch,

shredding right across the country

country that will remain

and the one that is in me.

* * *

I suddenly lost the feeling of the elbow

with a crowd of teeming people,

and it's bad for me, like a fly in the ointment

must be bad in a barrel of honey.

* * *

Sitting on a friendly quiet feast,

I thought, shaking off the ashes in a saucer,

how often are losers in life

remain in the centuries after death.

* * *

Where are the passions, where is the rage and horrors,

where the army took up arms against the army,

blessed is he who has courage enough

play the flute quietly.

* * *

It's funny how fiercely it drives us

in the flea market of hubbub and feast

fear of being left behind

in the desert of your own world.

* * *

The discord of fathers with children is a guarantee

those constant changes

in which God is looking for something,

playing generational change.

* * *

Your features, strokes and highlights

in the soul of everyone and everyone,

but incomprehensibly different,

we are alone the same.

* * *

Changing goals and names

changing forms, styles, types, -

as long as the consciousness is warm,

slaves build pyramids.

* * *

It's funny when a man, blooming thickly,

having eaten a pood with native salt power,

suddenly finds sad

it looks like he's been fucked for a long time.

* * *

Blessed is he who cares for his body

I laid down my whole life for the sake of bread,

but the sky is brighter above those

who occasionally looks at the sky.

* * *

The glow of the soul is varied,

invisible, tangible and piercing;

mental illness is contagious

mental health is contagious.

* * *

Leave. And live safely.

And remember. And suffer at night.

The soul froze to this frozen earth,

rooted in this dead soil.

* * *

In everything he sees or hears

finding an excuse for sadness,

bore - something like a roof,

flowing even without rain.

* * *

My friends! Forever tenderly devoted to you,

I am exacted by your generosity of soul;

I hope I won't be betrayed by you

and this debt will not be collected by you.

* * *

It descends on us from above

from a bird's eye view

the happiness of a dream come true,

then a drop of liquid droppings.

* * *

There lived a man in a certain era,

insisted with stubbornness,

she killed a man

and he became her pride.

* * *

There is no more disastrous misfortune in life,

than separation from your favorite turmoil:

a person without a familiar environment

becomes Friday very quickly.

* * *

It's just that our psyche is complex,

no more difficult than before:

hope is more important than opportunity

hope to come true someday.

* * *

We are smart, and you, alas,

what a shame if

ass above head

if the ass is in the chair.

* * *

Call me late at night, friends,

do not be afraid to interfere and wake up;

nightmarishly close hour when it is impossible

and there will be nowhere for us to call.

3
IN THE FIGHT FOR THE PEOPLE'S CAUSE I WAS A FOREIGN BODY

* * *

In the land of slaves forging slavery

among whores who sing whores,

the wise man lives as an anchorite,

keeping dick in the wind at the same time.

* * *

How difficult it is in one sitting,

hesitating even if right

your destiny - foggy text -

read without misreading.

* * *

Wasting myself with verses

and squandering a century like day,

I grab my hands

now an echo, now a smell, now a shadow.

* * *

I look at everything that happens

and I think: it will burn with fire;

but I don't go too crazy

because the kingdom of God is within.

* * *

Living half a century day by day

and wiser from the day of birth,

now I'm light on my feet

just to fall together.

* * *

Handsome, smart, slightly stooped,

full of worldview

yesterday I looked into myself

and left in disgust.

* * *

I stubbornly believed in living life,

in a simple reason and in the wisdom of a joke,

and all high matters

gave away skirts to whores.

* * *

Fat women, chips and lame,

scarecrows, whores and beauties

like parallel lines

intersect in my soul.

* * *

I'm not ashamed to be an ardent skeptic

and in the soul is not light, but darkness;

doubt is the best antiseptic

from mind decay.

* * *

The future - the taste does not spoil me,

I'm too lazy to tremble for the future;

think every day about a black day -

means to make black every day.

* * *

I love my disgust

leading me for a long time:

even to spit at the enemy,

I don't put shit in my mouth.

* * *

I was lucky and lucky

judged and thought enlightenedly,

and not one pretty bra

in front of me he rose rapidly.

* * *

My sky is crystal clear

and full of rainbow pictures

not because the world is beautiful,

but because I am a cretin.

* * *

There is an era in the yard,

and there is a bed in the corner,

and when I feel bad with a woman,

I don't care about the era.

* * *

I keep a loyal line

with the temper of time cool;

it's better to be a corrupt cynic,

than under investigation saints.

* * *

In my youth I waited for joy

from the hustle and bustle,

and turn to old age

into a homosexual.

* * *

I live - you can't imagine better

leaning on my own shoulder,

my own lonely companion,

I don't agree with myself on anything.

* * *

I write not disgustingly, but unevenly;

laziness to work, and idleness angers.

I live amicably with a Jewess,

although at heart he is an anti-Semite.

* * *

That's why I like to lie

and I spit at the ceiling

that I do not want to interfere with fate

shape my destiny.

* * *

All the eternal Jews are sitting in me -

prophets, freethinkers, traders,

and, gesticulating to their heart's content, clamor

in the darkness of an unsettled soul.

* * *

I don't need anything in the world

I do not want honors or glory;

I enjoy my peace

gentle, like in paradise after a raid.

* * *

Until the enema is given

I am alive and quite alive;

goat of my optimism

feeds on tryn-grass.

* * *

From two ends I burn my candle,

not sparing flesh and fire,

so that when I shut up forever,

loved ones got bored without me.

* * *

I'm not fit for heroes -

neither in spirit nor full face;

and only one slightly proud -

that I carry the cross with a dance.

* * *

I am with those who are extreme and furious,

lost interest:

the more aggressive the progressives,

the worse the progress.

* * *

Let the bazaar drive in vain

who sees the target. And I personally

took refuge in a life so private,

that and the person is partially deprived.

* * *

I suddenly realized that I live right,

that is pure and, thank God, gifted,

by the feeling that in a dream and in reality

Thank you for everything that happens.

* * *

This happiness is to build a palace on the sand,

not be afraid of prison and scrip,

indulge in love, indulge in longing,

feast at the epicenter of the plague.

* * *

My mind honestly serves my heart,

always whispering that you're lucky

that things could be much worse

it could still be crap.

* * *

I live without believing in anything,

I burn, not sparing, a crazy candle,

I am silent about the find, I am silent about the loss,

and most of all I am silent about hope.

* * *

I swear by the compote of my childhood

and senile heaters I swear

that I'm not afraid of anything

by chance if I touch the truth.

* * *

That grow from some point

we stop - a great pity:

I'm maybe only two centimeters

left to sanity.

* * *

In life conflict any

pity without narrowing the eyelids,

hard to watch yourself

think well of a person.

* * *

I don't believe the lies

about the light in the misty darkness.

I despaired. And therefore

became a desperate optimist.

* * *

At all the crossroads that passed,

held, wishing me happiness,

steel embrace of the motherland

and my neck and wrists.

* * *

On the tree of your genealogy

looking for my character in my ancestors,

I guess sadly that many

swing in a loop on these branches.

* * *

Tends to touch everything with the eye

my mind is shallow, but clear,

except in politics never

I did not fit deeper than the sole.

* * *

In everything with everyone on an equal footing,

like a drop in the dew

in only one was different than all, -

I couldn't live in shit.

* * *

Any royal lot is possible,

enough courage to get used to the role,

where destroyed - better than insignificant,

humiliated - like a deposed king.

* * *

For the fact that laughter prevails in me

over the mind in the midst of life battles,

fortune rewards me generously

back of their medals.

* * *

Closed, light and carefree

I am in my own smoke;

bound by a common chain by chance,

I am only a neighbor in my lifetime.

* * *

In this strange hellishness -

how do i live? What do I breathe?

Noise and boor reign in space,

noisy boor and boorish noise.

* * *

Someday I'll be famous

for me they will christen a brand of cigarettes,

and find out the anti-Semitic linguist,

that I was a Baltic Eskimo.

* * *

I didn't come into this life

to enter the senate on a horse,

I'm already completely satisfied

that no one is jealous of me.

* * *

By no means was I a mannequin

however, he was not in the ballet either;

I'm the nobody who was nobody

and was very pleased with it.

* * *

I have a dream, take care

I will be her fortress infusion:

when the books will be burned again,

let my fire be honored.

* * *

That I became a proletarian - I'm proud;

without fatigue, without rest, without falsehood

I try, I strain and I work,

like a young lieutenant - on a general.

* * *

In the midst of the noisy desert of life,

where is passion, and ambition, and struggle,

I have enough pride

to endure humility.

* * *

What is my ideal reader like?

I see it clearly:

he is a skeptic, a loser and a dreamer,

and it is a pity that he does not read anything.

* * *

The Lord is playing with me deftly,

and I - over him a little joke,

I like my rope

Here I am kicking my feet.

* * *

All my youth I loved trains,

so that hour is unknown to me,

when my lucky star

went up and did not find me in the place.

* * *

Prison was not heaven at all

but I often thought, smoking,

that, as you know, God is not a fraer,

which means I'm not sitting in vain.

* * *

To many things that time is dirty,

darkness of events, vile and vile,

I easily find the seed

in their own thoughts and feelings.

* * *

Fornication of the world reconstructions

and delirium of fusion in ecstasy -

have many common properties

with a tornado flush in the toilet.

* * *

The era is proud of me for morality,

so that everyone knows about it everywhere,

write my name forever

in the cloud, in the wind, in the rain.

* * *

Where will the soul be taken after death,

I do not bargain with God;

in paradise the climate is much milder,

but better society in hell.

Igor GUBERMAN
GARIK FOR EVERY DAY

Volume I

Dedicated to Yuli Kitaevich, my beloved friend, the author of many of my poems.

This book should not be read in a row and a lot, better a little bit from different chapters - according to mood.
This book should not be read as a source of indisputable truth, for there is no such thing in nature.
This book should not be read in search of worldly wisdom, for the author himself yearns for it.
This book should not be read for useful thoughts, for they always contradict each other.
This book should not be read in the hope of advice and recipes, because they are not needed by the smart, and they will not help the fool.
Maybe this book shouldn't be read at all.
But having it at home at hand is a must.

THE FLESH IS FATTING
DUST IS EVAPORATING.
THE YEARS WENT TO A SLOW DINNER.
AND IT'S GOOD TO THINK
WHAT WAS THERE
AND SOMEONE WAS EVEN NEEDED.

I. How easy it is to take away freedom from the people: you just need to entrust it to the people

I feel sorry for Marx: his legacy
fell into a Russian font;
where the end justifies the means
and the means beat the end.

For the benefit of the hegemonic class,
so that he reigns relentlessly,
at any moment available to shmona
individual hegemon.

The layer of man in us is a little bit
layered unsteadily and anxiously;
it is easy to return us to the cattle,
it's very hard to get back up.

Forever we erected a monument
madness, ruin and loss,
by experimenting with blood
brought negative results.

I am young, in the remnants of snot,
I'm afraid, shaking life like a pear:
in their souls it is dark, as in the ass,
and in the ass - itching to amuse the soul.

When history bleeds
whistles to souls and powers,
one - a slug crawls into a hole,
the other is swollen with a boa constrictor.

Good, not rejecting the means of evil,
on them and reaps the results;
in a paradise where resin is applied,
archangels are hoofed and horned.

When fear swirls pitch
And the darkness is pierced by the barking of chases
blessed is anyone who dares
do not blow out the fire in yourself.

Provided with a common phrase,
hostile to life and nature,
with lack of freedom, scum and evil spirits
freer to become a shepherd.

Freedom, looking impartially,
then only becomes necessary,
when there is space inside of me
larger than the outer chamber.

By blood penetrating to the roots,
piercing the air of the sky,
bondage corrupts us more,
than the most dissolute freedom.

We inherited from our grandfathers today
indifferent shadow of fatigue -
historical fatigue
demonic generation.

The spirit of the times, though warlike,
still bloody his surf;
committing suicide,
utopias pull us along.

Pen and eye holding in union,
I do not eat my bread in vain:
Russia - Gordian bathroom
the most pressing current problems.

I'm afraid of any trumpet howls,
looking habitually and soberly:
good, bitching in the excitement of the struggle,
glares sharply and briskly.

I was lucky: I knew the country
one, the only one in the world,
in your own captivity
in his living apartment.

Where they lie to themselves and to each other,
and memory does not serve the mind,
history goes around
from blood - through mud - into darkness.

Blossom terry and stubbornly
fruits of progress seeds:
the snobbery of the plebeian, the swagger of the boor,
shit arrogance.

In the years of corruption, lies and fear
narrow scope:
forbidden jokes below the groin
and thoughts above dick.

Not close to history, but familiar,
I see our glory very clearly:
we have become an unquenchable beacon,
shining on a course where it's dangerous.

Leading parties and classes,
leaders never understood
that the idea thrown to the masses -
this is a girl thrown into the regiment.

soundless cocks crow;

like a fish - for flight and fish soup.

Habitual people are silent,
soundless cocks crow;
we are created for happiness and freedom,
like a fish - for flight and fish soup.

Drink the appointed cup on time,
Russia - a lesson and concern to everyone -
crucified like Christ to redeem
the universal mortal sin of reorganization.

In extreme situations, any
confused, anxious and hot,
calm confidence of the blind
more nightmarish than the confusion of the sighted.

Whatever the century, we are clearer and more audible
through the anguish of the liberal howl:
there is no more dangerous and there is no more harmful,
than freedom without a guard at all.

Us book of life is a darkness of strife
separates in every line,
and those who know do not know disputes -
they fuck us one by one.

In us, the pulse beats at the temple
mental turmoil evil coolness;
there is longing in the Russian spree,
easily inclined to ferocity.

Close your eyes, close your ears,
counting life for alms,
we break when they don't choke,
savor it as a boon.

Having sleep, food and work,
fate and power are not crossed,
and we are mercilessly fucked,
for which they then treat for free.

Roads to Russian bad weather
flowed through faith and fun;
the more collective way to happiness,
the worse the general hangover.

Years of unrighteous persecution
ooze the invisible juice of infection,
and in the spirit of future generations
creeping deaf metastases.

Personally, I am servile and cruel,
and as long as it is my nature,
democracy is an artificial flower,
non-living without protection and care.

Living is easy and fun
though disgustingly unheard of,
when everything is clear in the era
and everything is just as hopeless.

There is one mysterious theme,
pertaining to our souls:
the crazier the decrepit system,
the more dangerous it is to destroy it at once.

Comfort and peace grace
the simplest is limited by the limit:
it is dangerous to call black black,
and white is dangerous to call white.

The fate of the Russian evil spell
we are friends with science today,
smarter and thinner Janissaries
and they wear civilian clothes.

Russian character is famous in the world,
it is explored everywhere
it is so strangely vast,
that he yearns for a bridle.

Winter doesn't turn into summer
on the rivers ice drift in the spring is frantic,
and bridges collapse, and remember this
useful for Russian optimists.

Dreams cherished by the ancestors
fed us before the time,
and it's a pity that only leftovers
of them remain now.

Life has its own, different shade,
and your sense of life
when the dungeon is involved
in all its manifestations.

Neither laughter nor sin can do us
turn from the path of the brave,
we build happiness for everyone at once,
and we don't care about anyone.

Outskirts, provinces of the soul,
where is our abomination, baseness and darkness,
waiting years for the moment. And the descendants
then they wonder how fascism arose.

I'm afraid that where the darkness swirls,
where are the secret springs and entrances,
mass suicidal instinct
waters the roots of the tree of freedom.

Any can be world porridge
to start with the youth of the Gorlopansky,
which the Second World
already a little confused with the Trojan.

II. Among the unthinkable victories of civilization, we are alone, like crucian carp in the sewers.

Any of us, until he died,
puts itself in pieces
from intelligence, sex, humor
and relationship with the authorities.

someday, afterwards, later,
but even in the primers they will put a line,
what was done en masse and herd
disentangles each one alone.

From birth, I am painfully bifurcated,
rushing from extreme to end
my own mother is harmony,
and dissonance is the father.

Between rumors, fairy tales, myths,
just lies, legends and opinions
we are at enmity hotter than the Scythians
for the dissimilarity of delusions.

The aging children are swarming
everyone has tragedy and drama,
and I watch these performances
and lonely as Adam's dick.

I can't go on with this life
and breaking up with her is excruciatingly difficult;
the hardest thing to leave
us from where it is impossible to live.

In the hearts of someone rude,
terribly likely
once out of your mind
and don't log back in.

Everyone to himself - deaf doors,
his own criminal and judge,
himself and Mozart and Salieri,
himself and an acorn and a pig.

We have a passion for words
not at all a whim and not a mania;
we need words
for lies of mutual understanding.

Now enjoying, then mourning,
following the path of any
be yourself, not you
put in for another.

In your image and spirit
The Creator sculpted us, creating the origins,
and we keep like Him
And maybe that's why you're so alone.

Not jumping with the century on a par,
Be human;
you won't end up in shit
together with the age.

I look without complaining, like in autumn
blew the eyelids on white strands,
and see with the same pleasure
fortune buttocks are ripe.

Pouring into the earthly time stream
by coincidence,
any one of us is so lonely
that happy from any connections.

Is it not in vain that knowledge is useless
do we disturb our drowsy spirit?
Those who look into the abyss
she looks too.

There is much happiness in clear faith
with her heavy load light,
Yes, it's a pity that in a clean atmosphere
unbearable to my heavy lungs.

It's not easy to think high
soaring with the soul in the interstellar worlds,
when around at the very side
sniff, gnaw and spoil the air.

We share time and cash
we share vodka, bread, lodging,
but the more distinct the personality,
the lonely person.

And vile, and vile, and vile,
and the fear that you will become infected with swine,
and the redneck goes astray
and happily bestial unity.

None of the closest involuntarily
not included in my experiences,
I keep my spiritual calluses
from loving sympathetic galoshes.

Separations whistle at the door,
I sit at the table lonely,
champagne blood boys
become barrels of beer.

Cultivating a spirit garden,
grunts humanitarian elite,
tormented by pain for the people
and changes of migraine and colitis.

With the success of science is inconsistent,
and whining - and try to drown out -
my inoperable ulcer
at the bottom of the nonexistent soul.

This thought is a stolen flower
just a rhyme won't hurt her:
man is not alone
someone is always watching him.

With a soul split like a hoof,
I am alien to both homelands -
Jew, where the anti-Semites are chasing,
and Russian, where they sin with Zionanism.

Closer circle. Less and less meetings.
Losses and separation fly;
there are no others, and those are far away,
and who is weak, goes to bitches.

The god of technology is different from the god of science;
art god - other than the god of war;
and God of love weakening hands
over them stretches from on high.

So much to pay
as long as life goes on,
that one should thank fate
for cases where you pay for your own.

In our jungle, fierce and stone,
I'm not afraid of old villains,
but I fear the innocent and the righteous,
selfless, holy and innocent.

The sons leave with their tails up,
and daughters languish, sitting at home;
we plant seeds, grow flowers,
and after only the buttocks we see.

When mediocrity is teeming around,
laying down your cliché on life,
outcast hides elitism,
very useful to the soul.

I feel sorry for this blue sky,
sorry for the earth and life fragments;
I'm scared that well-fed pigs
scarier than hungry wolves.

Friends are always a little picky.
And they tend to laugh.
Friends are always a little annoying.
Like fidelity and certainty.

The Lord has sown us like a vegetable garden,
but in the thickets of plants He grows,
we are divided into many breeds,
partially incompatible.

I live alone and hunched over
friends have died or are serving,
and where harmony flashed to me,
others will just find their ass.

With my departure, the seam will stretch,
shredding right across the country
country that will remain
and the one that is in me.

I suddenly lost the feeling of the elbow
With a crowd of swarming people,
And it's bad for me, like a fly in the ointment,
It must be bad in a barrel of honey.

Sitting on a friendly quiet feast,
I thought, shaking off the ashes in a saucer,
how often are losers in life
remain in the centuries after death.

Where passions, rage and horrors,
where the army took up arms against the army,
blessed is he who has courage enough
play the flute quietly.

It's funny how fiercely it drives us
in the flea market of hubbub and feast
fear of being left behind
in the desert of your own world.

The discord of fathers with children is a guarantee
those constant changes
in which God is looking for something,
playing generational change.

Your features, strokes and highlights
in the soul of everyone and everyone,
but incomprehensibly different,
we are alone the same.

Changing goals and names
changing forms, styles, types, -
as long as the consciousness is warm,
slaves build pyramids.

It's funny when a man, blooming thickly,
having eaten a pood with native salt power,
suddenly finds sad
it looks like he's been fucked for a long time.

Blessed is he who cares for his body,
I laid down my whole life for the sake of bread,
but the sky is brighter above those
who occasionally looks at the sky.

The glow of the soul is varied,
invisible, tangible and piercing;
mental illness is contagious
mental health is contagious.

Leave. And live safely.
And remember and suffer at night.
The soul froze to this frozen earth,
rooted in this dead soil.

In everything he sees or hears
finding an excuse for sadness,
bore - something like a roof,
flowing even without rain.

My friends! Forever tenderly devoted to you,
I am exacted by your generosity of soul;
I hope I won't be betrayed by you
and this debt will not be collected by you.

It descends on us from above
from a bird's eye view
the happiness of a dream come true,
then a drop of liquid droppings.

There lived a man in a certain era,
insisted with stubbornness,
she killed a man
and he became her pride.

There is no more disastrous misfortune in life,
than separation from your favorite turmoil:
a person without a familiar environment
becomes Friday very quickly.

It's just that our psyche is complex,
no more difficult than before:
hope is more important than opportunity
hope to come true someday.

We are smart, and you, alas,
what a shame if
ass above head
if the ass is in the chair.

Call me late at night, friends,
do not be afraid to interfere and wake up;
nightmarishly close hour when it is impossible
and there will be nowhere for us to call.

III. In the struggle for the people's cause, I was a foreign body

among whores singing whores
the wise man lives as an anchorite,
keeping dick in the wind at the same time.

In the land of slaves forging slavery
among whores who sing whores,
the wise man lives as an anchorite,
keeping dick in the wind at the same time.

How difficult it is in one sitting,
hesitating even if right
your destiny - foggy text
- read without distorting anywhere.

I look at everything that happens
and I think: it will burn with fire;
but I don't go too crazy
because the kingdom of God is within.

Living half a century day by day
and wiser from the day of birth,
now I'm light on my feet
just to fall together.

Handsome, smart, slightly stooped,
full of worldview
yesterday I looked into myself
and left in disgust.

I stubbornly believed in living life,
in a simple reason and in the wisdom of a joke,
and all high matters
gave away skirts to whores.

Fat women, chips and lame,
scarecrows, whores and beauties
like parallel lines
intersect in my soul.

I'm not ashamed to be an ardent skeptic
and in the soul is not light, but darkness;
doubt is the best antiseptic
from mind decay.

The future - the taste does not spoil me,
I'm too lazy to tremble for the future;
think every day about a black day
means to make black every day.

I love my disgust
leading me for a long time:
even to spit at the enemy,
I don't put shit in my mouth.

I was lucky and lucky
judged and thought enlightenedly,
and not one pretty bra
in front of me he rose rapidly.

My sky is crystal clear
and full of rainbow pictures
not because the world is beautiful,
but because I am a cretin.

There is an era in the yard,
and there is a bed in the corner,
and when I feel bad with a woman,
I don't care about the era.

I keep a loyal line
with the temper of time cool;
it's better to be a corrupt cynic,
than under investigation saints.

In my youth I waited for joy
from the hustle and bustle,
and turn to old age
into a homosexual.

I live - you can't imagine better
leaning on my own shoulder,
my own lonely companion,
I don't agree with myself on anything.

I write not disgustingly, but unevenly;
laziness to work, and idleness angers.
I live amicably with a Jewess,
although at heart he is an anti-Semite.

That's why I like to lie
and I spit at the ceiling
that I do not want to interfere with fate
shape my destiny.

All the eternal Jews are sitting in me -
prophets, freethinkers, traders,
and, gesticulating to their heart's content, clamor
in the darkness of an unsettled soul.

I don't need anything in the world
I do not want honors or glory;
I enjoy my peace
gentle, like in paradise after a raid.

Until the enema is given
I am alive and quite alive;
goat of my optimism
feeds on tryn-grass.

From two ends I burn my candle,
not sparing flesh and fire,
so that when I shut up forever,
loved ones got bored without me.

I'm not fit for heroes -
neither in spirit nor full face;
and only one slightly proud -
that I carry the cross with a dance.

I am with those who are extreme and furious,
lost interest:
the more aggressive the progressives,
the worse the progress.

Let the bazaar drive in vain
who sees the target. And I personally
took refuge in a life so private,
that and the person is partially deprived.

I suddenly realized that I live right,
that is pure and, thank God, not mediocre,
by the feeling that in a dream and in reality
Thank you for everything that happens.

This happiness is to build a palace on the sand,
not be afraid of prison and scrip,
indulge in love, indulge in longing,
feast at the epicenter of the plague.

My mind honestly serves my heart,
always whispering that you're lucky
that things could be much worse
it could still be crap.

I live without believing in anything,
I burn, not sparing, a crazy candle,
I am silent about the find, I am silent about the loss,
and most of all I am silent about hope.

I swear by the compote of my childhood
and senile heaters I swear
that I'm not afraid of anything
by chance if I touch the truth.

That grow from some point
we stop - a great pity:
I'm maybe only two centimeters
left to sanity.

In life conflict any
pity without narrowing the eyelids,
hard to watch yourself
think well of a person.

I don't believe the lies
about the light in the misty darkness.
I despaired. And so with
was a desperate optimist.

At all the crossroads that passed,
held, wishing me happiness,
steel embrace of the motherland
and my neck and wrists.

On the tree of your genealogy
looking for my character in my ancestors,
I guess sadly that many
swing in a loop on these branches.

Tends to touch everything with the eye
my mind is shallow, but clear,
except in politics never
I did not fit deeper than the sole.

In everything with everyone on an equal footing,
like a drop in the dew
in one was different than all -
I couldn't live in shit.

Any royal lot is possible,
it is enough just to dare to get used to the role,
where destroyed - better than insignificant,
humiliated - like a deposed king.

For the fact that laughter prevails in me
over the mind in the midst of life battles,
fortune rewards me generously
back of their medals.

Closed, light and carefree
I am in my own smoke;
bound by a common chain by chance,
I am only a neighbor in my lifetime.

In this strange environment -
how do i live? What do I breathe?
Noise and boor reign in space,
noisy boor and boorish noise.

Someday I'll be famous
for me they will christen a brand of cigarettes,
and find out the anti-Semitic linguist,
that I was a Baltic Eskimo.

I didn't come into this life
to enter the senate on a horse,
and already fully satisfied with the fact
that no one is jealous of me.

By no means was I a mannequin
however, he was not in the ballet either;
I'm the nobody who was nobody
and was very pleased with it.

I have a dream, take care
I will be her fortress infusion:
when the books will be burned again,
let my fire be honored.

That I became a proletarian - I'm proud;
without fatigue, without rest, without falsehood
I try, I strain and I work,
like a young lieutenant - on a general.

In the midst of the noisy desert of life,
where is passion, and ambition, and struggle,
I have enough pride
to endure humility.

What is my ideal reader like?
I see it clearly:
he is a skeptic, a loser and a dreamer,
and it is a pity that he does not read anything.

The Lord is playing with me deftly,
and I - over him a little joke,
I like my rope
Here I am kicking my feet.

All my youth I loved trains,
so that hour is unknown to me,
when my lucky star rose
and didn't find me.

Prison was not heaven at all
but I often thought, smoking,
that, as you know, God is not a fraer,
which means I'm not sitting in vain.

To many things that time is dirty,
darkness of events, vile and vile,
I easily find the seed
in their own thoughts and feelings.

Fornication of the world reconstructions
and delirium of fusion in ecstasy -
have many common properties
with a tornado flush in the toilet.

The era is proud of me for morality,
so that everyone knows about it everywhere,
write my name forever
in the cloud, in the wind, in the rain.

Where will the soul be taken after death,
I do not bargain with God;
in paradise the climate is much milder,
but better society in hell.

IV. The family is given to us by God, it is a substitute for happiness.

A woman is glorious from the century
everything that makes a family beautiful;
woman is man's friend
even when he's a pig.

The jailer is efficient and sensible,
life locks us up for a long time,
closing soft shackles
love, habit and duty.

A man is a boor, a bore, a despot,
tormentor, miser and dumbass;
so that we know this
we should just get married.

The Creator gave a woman's face
ability to transform:
first we introduce a sheep into the house,
and then we endure from the she-wolf.

After eating poods of joint porridge
and gave years to the struggle,
all the good things in our women
we owe ourselves.

Not the fate of the coming cloud,
not a quagmire of low everyday life,
hurts us the most
the closeness of our loved ones.

Do I roam the street noise
I eat porridge or wash on Saturdays
I ponder thoughtfully:
Why do they think I'm an idiot.

I lived as a bachelor for a long time,
and my life was pretty empty,
although he had one trifle:
freedom of smell, color and taste.

Family is the most reliable blessing,
boat in everyday bad weather,
and only moisture is comparable to it,
with which happiness is easier.

Don't scold me, friend
get away from the hustle and bustle
everyone eats each other
and me, and you.

In order not to let the family fade away,
a wife was sent to us by God,
and in women of strangers on a spoonful of honey
pours cunning Satan.

Children are nailed to the family,
we protect the peace of the spouse;
nothing is worth the tears of a wife,
except for the hug of a friend.

my happy face
won't spill anything;
I wear a ring on my finger
and with my neck I feel it.

To the fact that there is a crack in the family,
there is only one reason:
a woman awakened in the wife,
a man fell asleep in her husband.

Started a family. Children were born.
Wandering in search of coins.
It is impossible to live without women in the world,
and with them there is no life at all.

If on an autumn and windy day
the husband leaves, shuffling cheerfully,
the triangle is called isosceles
despite different hips.

I was single - I dreamed of odalisques,
bacchantes, whores, geishas, ​​pussies;
Now my wife lives with me
and silence at night.

Family chains in redemption
God granted copulation;
and the unmarried, throwing off their blouses,
have a no-load benefit.

I got into trouble for love,
wearing family suspenders,
but got used to the traction, like a trotter,
all his life running from the team.

Lucky and brave intruder
legality, traditions, silence,
decisive arbiter of his fate,
I am terribly afraid of my wife's tears.

Midnight strikes. We've been together for a long time.
A woman sleeps, illuminated by the moon.
Sleeping woman. My seed sleeps in it.
Already, perhaps, turning into a son.

We still have a lot of animal
remained in everyone, but the great
cruelty to loved ones -
only a wild given to man.

I'm dragging a cart with life
without tension and whining,
perceiving life washed
high light of being.

The Lord is cruel. Green ignoramuses,
he turns us yellow
and a flock of gentle thin girls -
into a crowd of grumpy overweight wives.

When in family noisy quarrels
the wife is wrong
about it later in memoirs
the mature widow mourns.

If a deep connection breaks,
the pain of a tear is treated with salt.
It's good to part, laughing -
over yourself, over separation, over pain.

If our Creator were not bound
mercy, like a rope,
The Eternal Jew could be terribly punished
combination with Eternal Zhidovka.

Gariki for every day

Igor Mironovich Guberman

"Gariki for every day", written by the poet and hooligan Igor Guberman, is difficult to describe in one word. Aphoristic, sparkling, funny and satirically sharp, always relevant, not always decent, a little cynical, but lyrical in Russian - all of them.

puts itself in pieces

from intelligence, sex, humor

and relationship with the authorities.

Igor Guberman

Gariki for every day

Dedicated to Yuli Kitaevich, my beloved friend, the author of many of my poems

The flesh is fading.

Dust evaporates.

The years have gone

for a slow dinner.

And it's nice to think

what was it anyway

and someone even needed it.

HOW IT IS SIMPLE TO TAKE FREEDOM FROM THE PEOPLE: IT SHOULD JUST BE TRUSTED BY THE PEOPLE

I feel sorry for Marx: his legacy

fell into a Russian font:

here the end justifies the means,

and the means beat the end.

For the benefit of the hegemonic class,

so that he reigns relentlessly,

at any moment available to shmona

individual hegemon.

The layer of man in us is a little bit

layered unsteadily and anxiously;

it is easy to return us to the cattle,

it's very hard to get back up.

Forever we erected a monument

madness, ruin and loss,

by experimenting with blood

brought negative results.

I am young, in the remnants of snot,

I'm afraid, shaking life like a pear:

in their souls it is dark, as in the ass,

and in the ass - itching to amuse the soul.

crushing, crushing and crushing,

fear reproduces itself

grows and feeds itself.

When history bleeds

whistles to souls and powers,

one - a slug crawls into a hole,

the other is swollen with a boa constrictor.

Good, not rejecting the means of evil,

on them and reaps the results;

in a paradise where resin is applied,

archangels are hoofed and horned.

When fear swirls pitch

and the barking of chases pierces the darkness,

blessed is anyone who dares

do not blow out the fire in yourself.

Provided with a common phrase,

hostile to life and nature,

with lack of freedom, scum and evil spirits

freer to become a shepherd.

Freedom, looking impartially,

then only becomes necessary,

when there is space inside of me

larger than the outer chamber.

By blood penetrating to the roots,

piercing the air of the sky,

bondage corrupts us more,

than the most dissolute freedom.

We inherited from our grandfathers today

indifferent shadow of fatigue -

historical fatigue

demonic generation.

The spirit of the times, though not warlike,

still its bloody surf;

committing suicide,

utopias pull us along.

Pen and eye holding in union,

I do not eat my bread in vain:

Russia - Gordian bathroom

the most pressing current problems.

I'm afraid of any trumpet howls,

looking habitually and soberly:

good, bitching in the excitement of the struggle,

glares sharply and briskly.

I was lucky: I knew the country

the one and only in the world

in your own captivity

in your living apartment.

Where they lie to themselves and to each other,

and memory does not serve the mind,

history goes around

from blood - through mud - into darkness.

Blossom terry and stubbornly

fruits of progress seeds:

the snobbery of the plebeian, the swagger of the boor,

shit arrogance.

In the years of corruption, lies and fear

narrow scope:

forbidden jokes below the groin

and thoughts above dick.

Not close to history, but familiar,

I see our glory very clearly:

we have become an unquenchable beacon,

shining on a course where it's dangerous.

Leading parties and classes,

leaders never understood

that the idea thrown to the masses -

this is a girl thrown into the regiment.

Familiar, silent people,

soundless cocks crow;

we are created for happiness and freedom,

like a fish - for flight and fish soup.

All social systems

from hierarchy to brotherhood -

knocking foreheads about problems

freedom, equality and fornication.

Appointed cup on time to drink,

Russia - a lesson and concern to everyone -

crucified like Christ to redeem

the universal mortal sin of reorganization.

In extreme situations, any

confused, anxious and hot,

calm confidence of the blind

more nightmarish than the confusion of the sighted.

Whatever the century, we are clearer and more audible

through the anguish of the liberal howl:

there is no more dangerous and there is no more harmful,

than freedom without a guard at all.

Us book of life is a darkness of strife

separates in every line,

and those who know do not know disputes -

they fuck us one by one.

In us, the pulse beats at the temple

mental turmoil evil coolness;

there is longing in the Russian spree,

easily inclined to ferocity.

Close your eyes, close your ears,

counting life for alms,

we break when they don't choke,

savor it as a boon.

Having sleep, food and work,

fate and power are not crossed,

and we are mercilessly fucked,

for which they then treat for free.

Roads to Russian bad weather

flowed through faith and fun;

the more collective way to happiness,

the worse the general hangover.

Years of unrighteous persecution

ooze the invisible juice of infection,

and in the spirit of future generations

creeping deaf metastases.

Personally, I am both servile and cruel,

and as long as it is my nature,

democracy is an artificial flower,

non-living without protection and care.

Life is easy and fun

though disgustingly unheard of,

when everything is clear in the era

and everything is just as hopeless.

There is one mysterious theme,

pertaining to our souls:

the crazier the decrepit system,

the more dangerous it is to destroy it at once.

Comfort and peace grace

the simplest is limited by the limit:

it is dangerous to call black black,

and white is dangerous to call white.

The fate of the Russian evil spell

we are friends with science today,

smarter and thinner Janissaries

and they wear civilian clothes.

Russian character is famous in the world,

it is explored everywhere

it is so strangely vast,

that he yearns for a bridle.

Winter doesn't turn into summer

on the rivers ice drift in the spring is frantic,

and bridges collapse, and remember this

useful for Russian optimists.

Dreams cherished by the ancestors

fed us before the time,

and it's a pity that only leftovers

of them remain now.

Life has its own, different shade,

and your sense of life

when the dungeon is involved

in all its manifestations.

Neither laughter nor sin can do us

turn from the path of the brave,

we build happiness for everyone at once,

and we don't care about anyone.

Outskirts, provinces of the soul,

where is our abomination, baseness and darkness,

waiting years for the moment. And the descendants

then they wonder how fascism arose.

I'm afraid that where the darkness is clubbing,

where are the secret springs and entrances,

mass suicidal instinct

waters the roots of the tree of freedom.

Any can be pestilence porridge

to start with the youth of the Gorlopansky,

which the Second World

already a little confused with the Trojan.

AMONG THE INCREDIBLE VICTORIES OF CIVILIZATION WE ARE ALONE AS CARP IN THE SEWER

Any of us, until he died,

puts itself in pieces

from intelligence, sex, humor

and relationship with the authorities.

someday, afterwards, later,

but even in the primers they will put a line,

what was done en masse and herd

disentangles each one alone.

From birth, I am painfully bifurcated,

rushing from extreme to end

my own mother is harmony,

and dissonance is the father.

Between rumors, fairy tales, myths,

just lies, legends and opinions

we fight hotter

Page 2 of 6

for the dissimilarity of delusions.

The aging children are swarming

everyone has tragedy and drama,

and I watch these performances

and lonely as Adam's dick.

I can't go on with this life

and breaking up with her is excruciatingly difficult;

the hardest thing to leave

us from where it is impossible to live.

In the hearts of someone rude,

awful, probably

once out of your mind

and don't log back in.

Everyone to himself - deaf doors,

his own criminal and judge,

himself and Mozart, and Salieri,

himself and an acorn, and a pig.

We are addicted to words -

not at all a whim and not a mania;

we need words

for lies of mutual understanding.

Now enjoying, then mourning,

following the path of any

be yourself, not you

put in for another.

In your image and spirit

The Creator sculpted us, creating the origins,

and we keep like Him

And maybe that's why you're so alone.

Do not jump with the century on a par,

Be human;

you won't be in hell

together with the age.

I look without complaining, like in autumn

blew the eyelids on white strands,

and see with the same pleasure

fortune buttocks are ripe.

Pouring into the earthly time stream

by coincidence,

any one of us is so lonely

that happy from any connections.

Is it not in vain that knowledge is useless

do we disturb our drowsy spirit?

Those who look into the abyss

she looks too.

There is much happiness in clear faith

with her heavy load light,

Yes, it's a pity that in a clean atmosphere

unbearable to my heavy lungs.

Though the excitement is sweet

go on two roads at once,

not with one deck of cards

play with the devil and with God.

It's not easy to think high

soaring with the soul in the interstellar worlds,

when around at the very side

sniff, gnaw and spoil the air.

We share time and cash

we share vodka, bread, lodging,

but the more distinct the personality,

the lonely person.

And vile, and vile, and vile,

and the fear that you will become infected with swine,

and the redneck goes astray

and happily bestial unity.

None of the closest in captivity

not included in my experiences,

I keep my spiritual calluses

from loving sympathetic galoshes.

Separations whistle at the door,

I sit at the table lonely,

champagne blood boys

become barrels of beer.

Cultivating a spirit garden,

grunts humanitarian elite,

tormented by pain for the people

and changes of migraine and colitis.

With the success of science is inconsistent,

and whining - and try to drown out -

my inoperable ulcer

at the bottom of a non-existent soul.

This thought is a stolen flower

just a rhyme won't hurt her:

man is not alone!

Someone is always watching him.

With a soul split like a hoof,

I am alien to both fatherlands -

Jew, where the anti-Semites are chasing,

and Russian, where they sin with Zionanism.

Closer circle. Less and less meetings.

Losses and separation fly;

there are no others, and those are far away,

and who is weak, goes to bitches.

The god of technology is different from the god of science;

art god - other than the god of war;

and God of love weakening hands

over them stretches from on high.

So much to pay

as long as life goes on,

that one should thank fate

for cases where you pay for your own.

In our jungle, fierce and stone,

I'm not afraid of old villains,

but I fear the innocent and the righteous,

selfless, holy and innocent.

The sons leave with their tails up,

and daughters languish, sitting at home;

we plant seeds, grow flowers,

and after only the buttocks we see.

When mediocrity is teeming around,

laying down your cliché on life,

outcast hides elitism,

very useful to the soul.

I feel sorry for this blue sky,

sorry for the earth and life fragments;

I'm scared that well-fed pigs

scarier than hungry wolves.

Friends are always a little picky.

And they tend to laugh.

Friends are always a little annoying.

Like fidelity and certainty.

The Lord has sown us like a vegetable garden,

but in the thickets of plants He grows,

we are divided into many breeds,

partially incompatible.

I live alone and hunched over

friends have died or are serving,

and where harmony flashed to me,

others will just find their ass.

With my departure, the seam will stretch,

shredding right across the country

country that will remain

and the one that is in me.

I suddenly lost the feeling of the elbow

with a crowd of teeming people,

and it's bad for me, like a fly in the ointment

must be bad in a barrel of honey.

Sitting on a friendly quiet feast,

I thought, shaking off the ashes in a saucer,

how often are losers in life

remain in the centuries after death.

Where are the passions, where is the rage and horrors,

where the army took up arms against the army,

blessed is he who has courage enough

play the flute quietly.

It's funny how fiercely it drives us

in the flea market of hubbub and feast

fear of being left behind

in the desert of your own world.

The discord of fathers with children is a guarantee

those constant changes

in which God is looking for something,

playing generational change.

Your features, strokes and highlights

in the soul of everyone and everyone,

but incomprehensibly different,

we are alone the same.

Changing goals and names

changing forms, styles, types, -

as long as the consciousness is warm,

slaves build pyramids.

It's funny when a man, blooming thickly,

having eaten a pood with native salt power,

suddenly finds sad

it looks like he's been fucked for a long time.

Blessed is he who cares for his body

I laid down my whole life for the sake of bread,

but the sky is brighter above those

who occasionally looks at the sky.

The glow of the soul is varied,

invisible, tangible and piercing;

mental illness is contagious

mental health is contagious.

Leave. And live safely.

And remember. And suffer at night.

The soul froze to this frozen earth,

rooted in this dead soil.

In everything he sees or hears

finding an excuse for sadness,

bore - something like a roof,

flowing even without rain.

My friends! Forever tenderly devoted to you,

I am exacted by your generosity of soul;

I hope I won't be betrayed by you

and this debt will not be collected by you.

It descends on us from above

from a bird's eye view

the happiness of a dream come true,

then a drop of liquid droppings.

There lived a man in a certain era,

insisted with stubbornness,

she killed a man

and he became her pride.

There is no more disastrous misfortune in life,

than separation from your favorite turmoil:

a person without a familiar environment

becomes Friday very quickly.

It's just that our psyche is complex,

no more difficult than before:

hope is more important than opportunity

hope to come true someday.

We are smart, and you, alas,

what a shame if

ass above head

if the ass is in the chair.

Call me late at night, friends,

do not be afraid to interfere and wake up;

nightmarishly close hour when it is impossible

and there will be nowhere for us to call.

IN THE FIGHT FOR THE PEOPLE'S CAUSE I WAS A FOREIGN BODY

In the land of slaves forging slavery

among whores who sing whores,

the wise man lives as an anchorite,

keeping dick in the wind at the same time.

How difficult it is in one sitting,

hesitating even if right

your destiny - foggy text -

read without misreading.

Wasting myself with verses

and squandering a century like day,

I grab my hands

now an echo, now a smell, now a shadow.

I look at everything that happens

and I think: it will burn with fire;

but I don't go too crazy

since the kingdom

Page 3 of 6

God is within.

Living half a century day by day

and wiser from the day of birth,

now I'm light on my feet

just to fall together.

Handsome, smart, slightly stooped,

full of worldview

yesterday I looked into myself

and left in disgust.

I stubbornly believed in living life,

in a simple reason and in the wisdom of a joke,

and all high matters

gave away skirts to whores.

Fat women, chips and lame,

scarecrows, whores and beauties

like parallel lines

intersect in my soul.

I'm not ashamed to be an ardent skeptic

and in the soul is not light, but darkness;

doubt is the best antiseptic

from mind decay.

The future - the taste does not spoil me,

I'm too lazy to tremble for the future;

think every day about a black day -

means to make black every day.

I love my disgust

leading me for a long time:

even to spit at the enemy,

I don't put shit in my mouth.

I was lucky and lucky

judged and thought enlightenedly,

and not one pretty bra

in front of me he rose rapidly.

My sky is crystal clear

and full of rainbow pictures

not because the world is beautiful,

but because I am a cretin.

There is an era in the yard,

and there is a bed in the corner,

and when I feel bad with a woman,

I don't care about the era.

I keep a loyal line

with the temper of time cool;

it's better to be a corrupt cynic,

than under investigation saints.

In my youth I waited for joy

from the hustle and bustle,

and turn to old age

into a homosexual.

I live - you can't imagine better

leaning on my own shoulder,

my own lonely companion,

I don't agree with myself on anything.

I write not disgustingly, but unevenly;

laziness to work, and idleness angers.

I live amicably with a Jewess,

although at heart he is an anti-Semite.

That's why I like to lie

and I spit at the ceiling

that I do not want to interfere with fate

shape my destiny.

All the eternal Jews are sitting in me -

prophets, freethinkers, traders,

and, gesticulating to their heart's content, clamor

in the darkness of an unsettled soul.

I don't need anything in the world

I do not want honors or glory;

I enjoy my peace

gentle, like in paradise after a raid.

Until the enema is given

I am alive and quite alive;

goat of my optimism

feeds on tryn-grass.

From two ends I burn my candle,

not sparing flesh and fire,

so that when I shut up forever,

loved ones got bored without me.

I'm not fit for heroes -

neither in spirit nor full face;

and only one slightly proud -

that I carry the cross with a dance.

I am with those who are extreme and furious,

lost interest:

the more aggressive the progressives,

the worse the progress.

Let the bazaar drive in vain

who sees the target. And I personally

took refuge in a life so private,

that and the person is partially deprived.

I suddenly realized that I live right,

that is pure and, thank God, gifted,

by the feeling that in a dream and in reality

Thank you for everything that happens.

This happiness is to build a palace on the sand,

not be afraid of prison and scrip,

indulge in love, indulge in longing,

feast at the epicenter of the plague.

My mind honestly serves my heart,

always whispering that you're lucky

that things could be much worse

it could still be crap.

I live without believing in anything,

I burn, not sparing, a crazy candle,

I am silent about the find, I am silent about the loss,

and most of all I am silent about hope.

I swear by the compote of my childhood

and senile heaters I swear

that I'm not afraid of anything

by chance if I touch the truth.

That grow from some point

we stop - a great pity:

I'm maybe only two centimeters

left to sanity.

In life conflict any

pity without narrowing the eyelids,

hard to watch yourself

think well of a person.

I don't believe the lies

about the light in the misty darkness.

I despaired. And therefore

became a desperate optimist.

At all the crossroads that passed,

held, wishing me happiness,

steel embrace of the motherland

and my neck and wrists.

On the tree of your genealogy

looking for my character in my ancestors,

I guess sadly that many

swing in a loop on these branches.

Tends to touch everything with the eye

my mind is shallow, but clear,

except in politics never

I did not fit deeper than the sole.

In everything with everyone on an equal footing,

like a drop in the dew

in only one was different than all, -

I couldn't live in shit.

Any royal lot is possible,

enough courage to get used to the role,

where destroyed - better than insignificant,

humiliated - like a deposed king.

For the fact that laughter prevails in me

over the mind in the midst of life battles,

fortune rewards me generously

back of their medals.

Closed, light and carefree

I am in my own smoke;

bound by a common chain by chance,

I am only a neighbor in my lifetime.

In this strange hellishness -

how do i live? What do I breathe?

Noise and boor reign in space,

noisy boor and boorish noise.

Someday I'll be famous

for me they will christen a brand of cigarettes,

and find out the anti-Semitic linguist,

that I was a Baltic Eskimo.

I didn't come into this life

to enter the senate on a horse,

I'm already completely satisfied

that no one is jealous of me.

By no means was I a mannequin

however, he was not in the ballet either;

I'm the nobody who was nobody

and was very pleased with it.

I have a dream, take care

I will be her fortress infusion:

when the books will be burned again,

let my fire be honored.

That I became a proletarian - I'm proud;

without fatigue, without rest, without falsehood

I try, I strain and I work,

like a young lieutenant - on a general.

In the midst of the noisy desert of life,

where is passion, and ambition, and struggle,

I have enough pride

to endure humility.

What is my ideal reader like?

I see it clearly:

he is a skeptic, a loser and a dreamer,

and it is a pity that he does not read anything.

The Lord is playing with me deftly,

and I - over him a little joke,

I like my rope

Here I am kicking my feet.

All my youth I loved trains,

so that hour is unknown to me,

when my lucky star

went up and did not find me in the place.

Prison was not heaven at all

but I often thought, smoking,

that, as you know, God is not a fraer,

which means I'm not sitting in vain.

To many things that time is dirty,

darkness of events, vile and vile,

I easily find the seed

in their own thoughts and feelings.

Fornication of the world reconstructions

and delirium of fusion in ecstasy -

have many common properties

with a tornado flush in the toilet.

The era is proud of me for morality,

so that everyone knows about it everywhere,

write my name forever

in the cloud, in the wind, in the rain.

Where will the soul be taken after death,

I do not bargain with God;

in paradise the climate is much milder,

but better society in hell.

FAMILY FROM GOD IS GIVEN TO US, A REPLACEMENT TO HAPPINESS SHE

A woman is glorious from the century

everything that makes a family beautiful;

woman is man's friend

even when he's a pig.

The jailer is efficient and sensible,

life locks us up for a long time,

closing soft shackles

love, habit and duty.

A man is a boor, a bore, a despot,

tormentor, miser and dumbass;

to make it known to us

we should just get married.

The Creator gave a woman's face

ability to transform:

first we introduce a sheep into the house,

and then we endure from the she-wolf.

After eating poods of joint porridge

and years

Page 4 of 6

giving up the fight

all the good things in our women

we owe ourselves.

Not the fate of the coming cloud,

not a quagmire of low everyday life,

hurts us the most

the closeness of our loved ones.

Do I roam the street noise

I eat porridge or wash on Saturdays

I ponder thoughtfully:

Why do they think I'm an idiot?

I lived as a bachelor for a long time,

and my life was pretty empty,

although he had one trifle:

freedom of smell, color and taste.

Family is the most reliable blessing,

boat in everyday bad weather,

and only moisture is comparable to it,

with which happiness is easier.

Don't scold me, friend

get away from the hustle and bustle

everyone eats each other

and me, and you.

In order not to let the family fade away,

a wife was sent to us by God,

and in women of strangers on a spoonful of honey

pours cunning Satan.

Children are nailed to the family,

we protect the peace of the spouse;

nothing is worth the tears of a wife,

except for the hug of a friend.

my happy face

won't spill anything;

I wear a ring on my finger

and with my neck I feel it.

To the fact that there is a crack in the family,

there is only one reason:

a woman awakened in the wife,

a man fell asleep in her husband.

Started a family. Children were born.

Wandering in search of coins.

It is impossible to live without women in the world,

and with them there is no life at all.

If on an autumn and windy day

the husband leaves, shuffling cheerfully,

the triangle is called isosceles

despite different hips.

I was single - I dreamed of odalisques,

bacchantes, whores, geishas, ​​pussies;

Now my wife lives with me

and silence at night.

Family chains in redemption

God granted copulation;

and the unmarried, throwing off their blouses,

have a no-load benefit.

I got into trouble for love,

wearing family suspenders,

but got used to the traction, like a trotter,

all his life running from the team.

Lucky and brave intruder

legality, traditions, silence,

decisive arbiter of his fate,

I am terribly afraid of my wife's tears.

Midnight strikes. We've been together for a long time.

A woman sleeps, illuminated by the moon.

Sleeping woman. My seed sleeps in it.

Already, perhaps, turning into a son.

We still have a lot of animal

remained in everyone, but the great

cruelty to loved ones -

only a human given is wild.

I'm dragging a cart with life

without tension and whining,

perceiving life washed

high light of being.

The Lord is cruel. Green ignoramuses,

he turns us yellow

and a flock of gentle thin girls -

into a crowd of grumpy overweight wives.

When in family noisy quarrels

the wife is wrong

about it later in memoirs

the mature widow mourns.

If a deep connection breaks,

the pain of a tear is treated with salt.

It's good to part, laughing -

over yourself, over separation, over pain.

If our Creator were not bound

mercy, like a rope,

The Eternal Jew could be terribly punished

combination with Eternal Zhidovka.

Does the ear hear, does the eye see?

these fractures trace and crunch?

Those who love us break us

cooler and more skillful than Procrustes.

It's a pity for the woman when, destroying happiness,

seeking leadership by mistake,

crushes the man under him,

and she becomes bored and nauseous.

When excitedly, seriously, not in jest

family battles rage

it's sad to think that reason

secretly dictated by the genitals.

Praise, women, men:

man for praise

will get the moon from the clouds

and the dust will sweep away in the corner.

Where is the harmony of our women?

The years are melting away, and becoming them is not at all the same;

but at every step they perform

they are a sumptuous belly dance.

The family is a theater where it is no coincidence

all peoples and times

entrance facilitated extremely,

and the exit is very difficult.

Stuck in family habit,

although we are still ignited,

but they already look like matches with ardor,

that burn only from someone else's box.

Fear a friend, not an enemy -

not enemies put us horns.

Our women are in vain afraid of hearing

about male infidelity inevitability,

very turn us away from whores

it is necessary to talk to them.

Cupid hooligans with a target

male foolish hearts,

and a bitch, a bore and a rogue

everyone goes down the aisle first.

Today for a happy marriage

a woman must have a lot of courage.

And Byron is right, noticing gloomily,

that the world owes, as a gift,

the fact that once Laura

did not marry Petrarch.

In the idyll of all loving families,

where the maple does not look enough at the mountain ash,

wife from her feminine weakness

makes a heavy club.

For an even home climate

the right word means a lot,

and from the whisper of love at night

the temper of the brownie improves.

Century after century blind blunders

a man does without thinking

what's inside the charming bird

a crocodile gloomy can live.

Awakened by the light that came to life in the window,

I pulled the blanket back on;

I'm an interrupted dream about cheating on my wife

I wanted to watch to the end.

Anyone - sovereign and private

my body is alien to tyranny,

although very in family life

useful I see despotism.

Completely own your wife

and manage your family

much more difficult than the country

although smaller in terms of villainy.

Flowers. The hum of people.

An empty lie that is forever with us.

Dull ringing of blind nails.

And silence. And darkness. And flame.

IF LIFE IS TOO BUSINESS, THE SEXUAL FUNCTION WEAKES

Having lived for almost half a century,

having tried the darkness of work,

I am convinced that a person

only the sweat of love is worthy.

That's why I love slobs

blessed in spirit, like a seal,

that there are no villains among them

and they are too lazy to do dirty tricks.

Reason, not knowing recklessness,

and the mind, where foolishness is out of hand,

and the mind, not responsive to feeling, -

far from wisdom.

Only before death

thinks, having finished the path,

that our age is too short,

to hurry somewhere.

Songs sung in youth

others do not hear

lives until retirement

happy and cheerful asshole.

Since life, flying,

having soared a little, - again in the manure,

the only one who is truly sane

who is not overly serious.

Our minds are filled with laughter

from stupidity, filth and dirty tricks,

and a society devoid of laughter

languishes in clinical pathos.

Today is the same as yesterday

the earth is full of feasts and executions;

evil is more charming than good,

more flexible and more varied.

Quite a bizarre world in offices

from nine to six;

there are asses, of which

and legs are squeamish to grow.

The miser has strong constipation,

the miser has a dark window,

the miser has eternal constipation -

he is greedy even shit.

Ways of good with ways of evil

so messed up for centuries

that and the purest deeds

they do it with dirty hands.

Lord, sculpting people out of boredom,

was at times stingy,

and that the bitches partially came out,

he is partly to blame.

Our time will be famous

the one who created fear for the sake of

new hermaphrodite variant:

in the flesh they are men, but in spirit they are whores.

Blessed is he who sincerely does not hear

a confused groan of his soul:

he is full of strength and happy,

falling higher over the years.

A little better, a little worse -

vodka is found,

and you should not drink from a puddle -

spit is useful.

I will not become an enemy, I wish for enmity

nights under the prison lock,

but let it be like a small need

either vinegar or boiling water.

In bed, hut and bathrobe

rest is found by the inhabitant.

Who is romantic

Page 5 of 6

and in gears dick vanishes.

In the temptations of all sorts and different

there is no need to subdue the spirit and the flesh;

there is nothing worse for temptation,

than to succumb immediately.

With quiet sadness, the artist grumbles,

that with exactly the same grub

a colleague is not only fatter,

but also much brighter.

WITH good people I was familiar;

until I die dead in oblivion,

neither a bitch now, nor an asshole

I won't thank them anymore.

Not involved in darkness and light,

squeamish about evil, lazy about good,

for an hour a day I was happy,

inclined notebook to cohabitation.

Hundreds of fools serve in the offices,

scolding the house, stove and rag;

those who serve too much

the uterus grows into a folder.

Do not poke your head and bugler,

but with cheerfulness follow and lead;

a man must be an optimist,

all the best is ahead.

I'm on a career, life and things

did not waste thoughts and labors,

I really loved women and women,

as well as girls and widows.

There are passions to which in praise

nothing is said anywhere;

I praise laziness - overcoming

selfishness, conscience and reason.

Our age easily breeds a subject

with cold fire in the eyes of the vicious,

with a bag of shit and intelligence

on two fragile limbs.

My fatigue is covered with snow,

life is no longer a book, but a page,

in the heart - growing pity

to those who flicker and fuss.

There is no grace in advice

and for the most part there is no benefit,

and than a fool asshole,

the more abundant he is for advice.

Cool and touchingly clean

weighty, clear and distinct

from the poor in spirit - a fleshy spirit

hovering in the air pleasantly.

A man without tight and stubborn

arbitrary habits in decisions

gradually becomes a lady,

sophisticated in every way.

It hurts the soul like a burn,

longing for complicity in disputes

with an abundance of creative asses,

very in the eruption of the swift.

Work will become the ruler of the world,

when the wine pours from the cannons,

and fall into virginity at once

fifteen thousand sluts.

Not going anywhere for a bit

we put all our strength into spinning,

for we do not believe in the path traveled,

but in the movement we create.

You are always anxious, in sweat, in juice,

you hurry as if death is already near;

you, apparently, was conceived at full gallop

some kind of horse thief flying in the night.

By branches! To bananas! Where is the success!

And prestige! Another jump!

Hundreds of monkeys are heading up

and the sight of their naked asses is terrible.

I respect laziness for what

in her inactive silence

living thought nourishes the soil

my restless soul.

Having said, without lying or boasting,

that I don't give in to fear

I will not hide the fact that I am afraid of enthusiasts

and very activists I'm afraid.

I lived my life as an amateur -

no knowledge, no system,

but I did not write a dictation,

and an essay without a theme.

To taste plenty of joy

and roam freely through life,

have to eat early in the morning

and spend the night at sunset.

Rotting foundations - anecdote basis,

and it became clearly more visible in it,

that there are a lot of funny things in Russian comedy,

but little fun in it.

Tasting being a thick drink,

shaking along a rut dug by people,

I realized that there is an excess of seriousness -

a sign of latent insufficiency.

Those who have a sad heart

and thoughts - longing moraine,

and if you take a closer look,

the poor also have boiled eggs.

What are the worms talking about?

What are they striving to achieve?

So that their drafts live

worms were brought into pythons.

I do not regret the intoxicating flashed years,

I'm not ashamed of their crazy fun,

there is idleness, which is higher than labor,

there are works that are more disgraceful than idleness.

This type is the boss, probably:

if he is confused, taken aback,

if the wind blows incomprehensibly -

he sweats something bad.

Underground, subtly, subtly,

being born, as in the city - flowers,

thoughts grow in us, writhing hard

through the broken stone of vanity.

Created with the mind and not joking

idleness refreshes our souls;

in the morning I'm a loafer, in the evening I'm lazy,

and only in the interval I beat the buckets.

Already in the morning, still in bed,

I say countless times

that everyone in the world is to blame -

The Lord, who condemned us to work.

No matter how vague this version,

but in the life of each of us

there is Griboedov's Persia

and there is the Martynov Caucasus.

Only he is quite pious,

who didn't waste time

and, boldly dissolving the belt,

earthly tasted grace.

You are prudent, prudent,

grimaces are unknown to the soul,

you are not a child of living parents,

and a compass and cash register complex.

Avoiding both feasts and women's bedrooms,

and life with its garbage dumps,

became so sterile perfect,

that even out of necessity he went violets.

About equality we are busy worries,

swamps and hills we equal;

hills, when leveled with swamps,

the hills become swamps.

So used to being everywhere in sight,

for prestige is constantly in the answer,

that, having closed for little need,

holding a dick like a glass at a banquet.

Live while you're alive. In the midst of the flood

which is about to come to an end,

believe me - for sure the ass will flash,

which you have guarded in vain.

Men are the absolute vanguard

all marvelous human inventions,

and it is a pity that their excitement is not moderate

bearing and childbirth.

So deftly began to crawl

now in bureaucratic circles,

that can easily blow their nose

through the toes.

How much light from the clash of ideas

how much freshness in the sensual range,

but look at bitches and whores -

greasy smacking dirt underfoot.

Over the evil longing of hospitals and prisons,

over our mouse fuss,

smoky chimneys smoked through,

hardly a holy spirit hovers.

I am a stranger to rational worries

and very happy that it is:

God bless idiots

and loves assholes.

There are people - their faces are beautiful,

and the level of thought is high,

but instead of blood flows in them

hot gastric juice.

Get bogged down in stupid daily routines

and find entertainment in them,

lost souls in errant bodies

lose their purpose.

I feel sorry for my generation

deprived of free play:

some have flat thinking,

others have hemorrhoids in their souls.

It's time! Now bless me

on the way of autumn, rains and leaf fall,

from the flame of flowering and love

to the ashes of decay and decay.

Given only to those was not without reason

the flurry of the local bustle,

who melted with spiritual heat

even a drop of eternal abomination.

We all die. There is no hope.

But death will then shed publicly

back light on our lives,

and most will die a second time.

WHO IS TORN WITH SPIRITUAL THIRST, DO NOT EXPECT LOVE OF FATHER CITIZENS

Man is a mystery

closes the world picture,

combination of fauna and flora,

combined oak and cattle.

Explosions are not a random guest in the world;

everywhere slow and fast

the air accumulates our anger,

and she is looking for a spark.

Cavalry rushes through countries and centuries,

which crushes and subjugates;

but the engine of history is insomnia

those who know and compose.

On recklessness and missteps

I'm glad to let the rest of the days

but the sea of ​​well-fed vulgarity splashes

O shore of my old age.

Watching the children play

you can be quite calm

that forever in the world

discord and war will not pass.

When the efforts of science

spill oil and honey everywhere,

Page 6 of 6

curiosity and boredom

somebody will blow it all up.

Serving history carefully,

changes the time price of the word;

now is the era where romance

sounds like a pied piper.

Weighty and strong environment and chance,

but the main thing is the mysterious genes,

and no matter how you torment me with education,

barrels will not produce Diogenes.

There are faces - the heart melts,

so pure is their form,

and only the top is missing

from the fig of a tender leaf.

With his soul, responsive and pure,

others we do not fully approve of;

very unsympathetic in egoists

Love for yourself is stronger than for me.

When you sit in noisy gatherings,

the tongue burns and burns;

but people are divided into smart

and those who talk a lot.

Always stronger and higher than the songwriter,

and it is easier for him to live in the world,

in whom the hangman is merrier and brighter,

always lurking in the poet.

Singing the conception and agony,

and the path between them in the universe,

the poet was born to see the harmony

in any and every vegetation.

Music does not live in my poems,

and a joke baked in banality,

laying down with a heating pad on the stomach,

aching with the indigestion of reality.

You can't stay the same without being angry

rumbling belly,

when you are next to a rebellious

a confused spirit.

The priest is majestic and strict. He is the key

from the secrets that are going on in the world.

And the jester is open and simple. Like a beam

these life-giving mysteries.

Our Lord is a tradition. And in her

their blessings and obstacles;

unwritten rules are stronger

than the most brutal laws.

Despite the strife between us

despite the fact that so many of us are different,

in monkeys we grew together with roots,

but not all of them are humanoid.

Science is science, but there are signs;

I firmly noticed since childhood,

that in years of hope poets breed,

and in the time of decay - the authorities.

I grew up when I discovered

that you can cry or get angry,

but everywhere darkness now mug, then dug,

and those who don't are beaten in the face.

Life ain't without bitches

in it bitches with us in half,

Read this book in its entirety by purchasing the full legal version (http://www.litres.ru/igor-guberman/gariki-na-kazhdyy-den-2/?lfrom=279785000) on Litres.

End of introductory segment.

Text provided by LitRes LLC.

Read this book in its entirety by purchasing the full legal version on LitRes.

You can safely pay for the book with a Visa, MasterCard, Maestro bank card, from an account mobile phone, from a payment terminal, in the MTS or Svyaznoy salon, via PayPal, WebMoney, Yandex.Money, QIWI Wallet, bonus cards or in another way convenient for you.

Here is an excerpt from the book.

Only part of the text is open for free reading (restriction of the copyright holder). If you liked the book, the full text can be obtained from our partner's website.