Mike Varna
Snow in the stern, behind the snow, snow ...
It seems that at the bottom - the snow ... Snow
In the mind - everywhere. Snow today in shock.
Ice reconnaissance and pilot bored in a bar
(On the coast that from us the forty miles to the south),
Boredom prihvatyvaet friend's knee.
Deck - the same embankment, believe me.
Move, as the word "bye" in an envelope
From corner to corner. From cheeks to poop.
And the grumbling of diesels adds comfort,
Buzz as the stove on the beach like a cat
Murchaschaya on the frosty window.
A yesterday was the rain.
In September the weather in these latitudes true
Predskazhesh not, be at least mushers, and even a shaman.
I love when the world haze fog -
To be seen, not heard anything. Just freeze the lips.
Yes cursing at the top of the navigator through clenched teeth.
If my mother was alive - I wrote to my mother,
That has forgotten much, when, and went to Panama;
That the boatswain - inveterate carpenter, but an alcoholic
And yesterday we had knocked up a rough table,
So that I was polishing his elbows
Twisting the Cyrillic alphabet with the passions.
Here again, rain ... and under the throat, again
Stir another word -
Zatsarapalo line pretentious and uneven.
Something I'm tired of pretending to warm-blooded ...
I am now well because the dark early.
In the darkness once more delayed wound.
And wash the bandages are not frightened gaze,
And can not see the fingers, trembling from the shame
In front of a white sheet, intact and submissive.
Seen that celestial now believes controversial
Loyalty to the address at which the beads are rolled ...
I tried to gather, weave - pattern has not happened.
In the shadows easily dopridumyvat these pictures
A roulade of rain, that my brain is brewed as tea leaves,
And broth at our fingertips oozes out of place ...
In my old man's bed kryahtyaschey
Not conceive holodeyuschim forehead, no heat, no peace / # K-plebeian lustfully wrong in the winter.
Well, now there is nobody to respond.
What a fist is free to decompress.
Settles on a stool in spring snow in the ravine
Is my creature, heeling to the paper.
Tell yourself the truth is not even scary - hard,
Cigarette burning painful tightening,
Bitter whisper empty cabins Let for the gate,
Twitching of the chill with the word "city".
Well, sir, it's time to summarize.
And let the blind gods wipe away a tear,
Like father, suddenly uzrevshy debility Chad
Finding yourself uteshenitse as "so necessary".
So do not.
I, who forgot about the hours and days of week
Of salty snow precocity souls wear
Most of the words, and the essence of the issue?
Whining puppy, with some dying from distemper,
Bell will ring on the Donets heart bag
Hrustnet ampoule running cool insight
Worn by vein. Hello, my aging.
Hello.
Clicked on the spit of sharpening an old woman.
And glancing at the rain - so that you empty!
Continue with the dedication of the mongoose.)
Well. Repeat the teacher - a strut.
From forgot I can hardly make a city.
A of those whom I forgot to populate the planet
Is not difficult ...
No beating heart or pride, or conceit,
Is not beating rablezianstva verbiage.
True stabs eyes, just looking at pieces of quartzite.
Like sheep, to whom novelty gate Kotsita.
Shaking the fabric of the soul and sneezing from the dust -
No wistful expression: "We loved."
I have often envied at the funeral feast
Those whose destiny became longer life.
But I have not found the time to close the damper
And the usual verbal fornication does not show the film.
Though snap closure is over the ear doctor-genius
Healer from the tedium vitae, humps and migraines.
Maybe true - I'm not a man, and the time the property
Corneas just annoying device,
Questioning, and was hungry, but blind.
I is scared. You see? I did not know - who I am ...
Who am I, Lord? Who made my blood Ilmarinen?
Who in the spicy smell of my arteries to blame?
Welded where my blood - in the alchemical crucible
Under the arches, which has erected a deer?
Ile in the pot soldiers, in a swampy Mari,
In the two-day march from Liinhamari?
Who am I, Weaver?
Who gathered my bile in caravans from Basra to Khiva
Of camel rage, guttural "John shaAlla"
In contemptuous silence curved metal?
Who am I, Lord?
Of the cuts, the words do not have to do with us ...
Fades bell. Do not stack eclogue.
I - just a pause before reading the epilogue.
Rain had stopped. Weather got much better. Water in a circle.
Navigator glad the horizon, like an old friend.
Rhythmically taut wave okeanische breathing.
And like a century ago, no one hears.
Incurable