All poems by Sasha Best. Interview with the poet Sasha Best The moon turned pale. Silence reigned in the chamber. Marusya started up, flew up like a turtledove. In the reflection in the mirror, screaming, the candlestick was thrown by Night has passed ... "
Sasha Bes(t) is an author "grown" on the Internet, and received recognition there. His love poems are spreading across the web at breakneck speed. ProstoKniga will tell about a man who writes under the pseudonym Sasha Best and his creative legacy.
Provocateur and revolutionary. During his short poetic career, more than three hundred poems, more than fifty texts for songs and musical performances came out from his pen. As soon as the name of the author loomed on the poetic Olympus, no one could say for sure: Sasha Bes is a man or a woman? The author often wrote and writes on behalf of a man:
After all, I wrote those lines not about you, And not for you, for anyone else, I invited the unloved to the waltz, But I don’t invite you again, machere
Photo source: vk.com
Biography. Sasha was born on March 8, 1985 in Moscow. She is a teacher-psychologist by education, and a poetess by vocation. Sasha says that when registering on the literary portal, all the female "nicknames" that she liked were taken, and she had to "get out". This is how Sasha Bes was born and the misconception about the author's gender, and Sasha was in no hurry to refute it, because it doesn't matter to her how she is addressed. Often she speaks of herself in the masculine gender:
You're not the only one, not even the first I'm wild, young, cynical We'll get on the world's nerves: Live for show, kiss in public.
Over time, the poetess acquired fans, and her poetry began to be published in collections, magazines and newspapers. In 2009, her first independent collection "" was released samizdat. The name of the collection is the name of one of the cycles of poems. Sasha comments on the title like this: “I was once asked: “What would you call the collection?” Well, I blurted out without thinking. I didn’t think about the subtext, although the title says it all - “here it is, the soul - take it, use it.” The collection "Soul on the Palms" is remarkable in that it contains two cycles of poems "A Doll's House" and "The Soul on the Palms". The title for the collection, and for the entire work of the poetess as a whole, was the poem "The Story of the Cat and its Man":
In dusty Moscow, an old house with two stained-glass windows. It was built in some sort of 11th century. Nearby lived a dazzling black Cat, a Cat that Man loved very much. No, not friends. The cat just noticed him - squinted a little, as if looking at the light. Her heart was beating, (Oh, how her heart was murmuring!) If, at a meeting, he quietly whispered to her: "Hi" No, not friends. The cat just let him pet her. She sat down on her knees. In the park one day she was walking with a Man, He suddenly fell. Well, the cat suddenly went crazy. A neighbor howled, a siren ... An ambulance rushed. What was going on in everyone's head? The cat was silent. She was not his cat. It just so happened that it was her Man. The cat was waiting. Didn't sleep, didn't drink or eat. Meekly waited for the light to appear in the windows. I just sat. And even turned a little gray. After all, he will return, and quietly whisper to her: “Hello.” In dusty Moscow, an old house with two stained-glass windows. Minus seven lives. And minus another century. He smiled, "Were you really waiting for me, Cat?" "Cats do not wait ... Stupid, stupid you are my Man"
In 2011, the pseudonym of the poetess Sasha Bes (Bes - “Basic Unit of the Word” - this is how the poetess “decodes” the pseudonym) acquired a new sound and one more letter. From now on, Sasha Bes became Sasha Bes(t).
In 2010, the poetess became the first Russian citizen to receive the "Silver Archer" of the prestigious International Poetry Prize. In 2011, she took third place in the Poets of Russia 2011 competition and became a finalist of the 3rd International Competition"Tsvetaeva autumn". In March 2013, the world saw the second collection of Sasha Bes (t) "I invented myself."
Sasha Bes(t) is engaged not only in creativity in the field of literature, but also in other types of art. The year 2011 became especially productive for her: Sasha starred in the documentary-feature film “If I deja vu”, participated in the performance-entreprise “Kitchen. Creativity Lessons” and successfully collaborated with the Ukrainian television channel STB. Especially for the popular show of vocalists "X-Factor" she wrote 20 lyrics.
Photo source: vk.com
Sasha Bes(t) writes penetratingly, reverently, sincerely. Her poetry is without rules, it does not obey the laws of versification. The main thing in Sasha Bes(t)'s poems is rhythm and idea. Her lyrics make you look at everyday things from a different angle. The poetess has an amazing ability to visually show how people themselves complicate their lives and make complex things out of simple things. In his work, Sasha raises the problem of misunderstanding and not wanting to hear each other. Her love poems are not feigned, they come from the heart, and therefore remain in the hearts of readers.
***
I can forgive in a relatively short time
And I compose poems for someone I no longer live with.
My bosom enemy, what should I do with you now?
Or, nevertheless, leave it as it was, and as it will not be
You won't get out into angels, but I won't get out into people
And so we so prudently chop off the shoulder
Volunteers are expensive...too few to just leave.
At the same time, it's fabulous for us - it hurts here just to stay
I'm too proud now to count with anyone
You could have kept me, but you couldn't lock me up.
I, breathing in spring, exhale a painful sound
I used to send it to ... non-printable lines
I still forgive in the usual - tight deadlines,
And I compose poems for someone I don’t live yet.
One of my favorite poets of our time Sasha Best, perhaps there are those who remember her with a former pseudonym Sasha Bes.
The story of the Cat and its Man
It was built in some sort of 11th century.
Nearby lived a dazzling black cat
A cat that the Man loved very much.
No, not friends. The cat just noticed him.
Squinted a little, as if looking at the light
Her heart was beating... Oh, how her heart was murmuring!
If, at a meeting, he quietly whispered to her: "Hi"
No, not friends. The cat just let him
Stroking yourself. She sat down on her knees.
In the park one day she was walking with a man
He suddenly fell. Well, the cat suddenly went crazy.
A neighbor howled, a siren ... An ambulance rushed.
What was going on in everyone's head?
The cat was silent. She was not his cat.
It just so happened that… that was her Human.
The cat was waiting. Didn't sleep, didn't drink or eat.
Meekly waited for the light to appear in the windows.
I just sat. And even turned a little gray.
After all, he will return, and quietly whisper to her: "Hi"
In dusty Moscow, an old house with two stained-glass windows
Minus seven lives. And minus another century.
He smiled, "Were you really waiting for me, Cat?"
"Cats do not wait ... Stupid, stupid you are my Man"
Mourning is over and you're dressing in black again
The fairy tale is gone, and you believe in its return
Number rule: Odd follows even
Revenge rule: Only blood will bring cleansing
Month - April, only thoughts are shrouded in frost
You're not in a hurry this summer where everything works out
Rule of the sky: flush suspicious - blue
Rule of life: all the best ends quickly
Slush around, but dreams, primitive - sterile
The black sun of midnight deliberately melted
Rule of Honor: The weak will always be followed by the strong
The rule of death ... Yes, to hell with stupid rules!
The modern author, who originally appeared on the Internet, never ceases to amaze with her "absolute pitch" in the field of poetry! I did not specifically check, perhaps a book with her poems has already been published, maybe not one, but for me Sasha Best will forever remain a wonderful nugget, nurtured in the virtual space.
Look my lord
Look, my lord, your roses
They bloom again.
That woman over and over
Comes here...
And the snow, my lord, is on the eyelashes
Treacherously melting…
Water on the eyelashes ... after all, snow -
It's just water.
Sad result, my lord,
Of course I know...
Here is a world where chamomile sways
Life in the wind
Here is a world where under your gaze
I always freeze.
And if you die, I'm with you
I will surely die.
Here is the sky, look, my lord,
Red at sunset.
Here slowly, as if in a fairy tale,
Ships are sailing.
And meeting your eyes,
Your servants are turning pale.
And they kiss your hand
My lord, kings
And only in April
For a moment it seemed to me:
There is a world where humbly sways
Snow in the wind.
Where pride is a mere furtive
Followed me...
There is a world where you will die. And I…
I won't die without you!
Swallowing the smoke of cheap cigarettes
Tune the strings on the guitar
I remembered that love and delirium
Always born in the same nightmare
I looked at the crumpled bed
On the girl who hugged the pillow
I suddenly remembered that there was a snowstorm outside the window,
And I became unbearably stuffy.
I lied to myself, I believed in miracles
I've seen hopes break
And how eyes change from drugs
And after they do not become as before.
And outside the window the blizzard howled again
Knocking hands on stone walls
I suddenly remembered that there is love in the world
And remembering this, I cut my veins.
In her poems, the usual rhyme is not always present, I am not a literary critic, I am not particularly versed in poetic terms, but a motive is heard here. A thin jet of the purest water flowing in a changing rhythm. Sasha Best- this is rock in modern poetry! Live, classic rock, sounding in the minds of readers!
***
We lived on the roof without knowing it was dangerous
Chilled gray clouds caressed their lips
Dancing like flames we knew the gods were beautiful
Playing like the wind we knew the gods were mighty
We fell on our faces, we begged the flowers to bloom
We waited for a thunderstorm, kissed the withered earth
How butterflies drank nectar from sacred acacias
And they all believed as one that nature does not sleep
We knew about heaven as much as the rain about sadness
We melted the sun, forged non-ferrous metals
We ran after the wind, without wind we wildly missed
We lost a day after eternity, quarters after a quarter
We took from life to the fullest, and a little more
We flew under the sky, plucked the frozen stars
I wanted to stay on this earth a little longer
But people came and built nests of stone
You are boring after a marvelous ball.
The look is calm, but the fingers are trembling.
You splashed wine from a glass
On my white English jacket.
That's bitch. Spoiled the evening
Romantic delirium for two.
Who would have known that at the first meeting,
Do you consider me yours?
Washing cold hands
In blue noble blood
I whispered to my new girlfriend:
"I accidentally poisoned you
Dislike." Old and banal.
Nothing will save her.
... It is a pity that all this was not with us.
"Stop" and ... "Cut!" - said the director.
Any poetry cannot be liked entirely, if we analyze each poem separately. There are not always strong verses, there are those that completely “fly by”. Poetry can and should be read selectively, there is no single plot. Here, as they say, to each his own. Sasha Best- a young, modern, and at the same time not going beyond what is permitted, a poetess whose talent cannot be left unnoticed!
Our conversation with Sasha took place exactly on the eve of the New Year. Maybe not by chance? After all, her poetry sounds like the music of a fairy tale, bewitches, enchants, beckons ... If you have ever touched this magic, you will love the fairy tale in yourself! And you will carefully keep it in your soul. And once you get lost on the paths of fate, one of Sasha's poems will help. Like a thread from a magic ball, you will come out of the darkness. Necessarily!
gift for grandma
Sasha, do you remember how you first came into contact with poetry as a child? Did your parents often read poetry to you?
As a child, my mother read me many poems. They were easy to remember, so they complicated the task for me with patriotic verses of incredible volumes. (smiles). Now, unfortunately, I do not remember which ones. But judging by the fact that my five-year-old nephew recites “The Story of an Unknown Hero”, “Uncle Styopa”, etc., I can assume that I also had a similar repertoire.
Please tell us the story of your first poem. How did you get the desire to write down your feelings and thoughts in poetic form?
The very first poem was written at the age of six in a beautiful red diary. It was a gift to my grandmother on March 8th. It is difficult to say where this desire came from, but it happened.
Do you think parents can instill a love of poetry in a child?
I think that parents not only can, but should instill in their child a love of poetry. Poems develop memory, a sense of rhythm and, thanks to their melodic sound, are easily perceived by children.
“Mom, tell me, is this an angel? But gray wings...
Don't angels have white wings, mother?
- Maybe, my dear, they are powdered with dust?
- Mom, he looks longingly at the window frame ...
- Sleep, my dear, he is an angel of a distant road.
There is some sand in the wings from the midnight track.
Sleep, my dear, let's wrap our feet
Beige blanket with horses of various colors ... "
"Lullaby about wings", August 11, 2008
You can't be born a poet
What do you think poetry is? Perhaps, anyone can write a few lines in rhyme. And only a few are given to breathe life into these lines in such a way as to touch the soul of a person. Where is the line drawn between rhymed lines and poetry?
Poetry is when goosebumps run. This is when, after reading a few lines, you want to know how it will all end. This is when you merge with the rhythm. This is when you want to read something else by the same author. This is when the gaze does not cling to the crooked construction. And it is absolutely not necessary when all of the above coincides at the same time.
“Poetry is when goosebumps run. This is when, after reading a few lines, you want to know how it will all end. This is when you merge with the rhythm ... "
Do you think one can become a poet or one is born? Does a poet really carry a "spark of God" or can any person be taught to write poetry?
You can't be born a poet. You can be born with a certain predisposition to something. And if environment will create the conditions in which talent will develop, everything will work out. And you can, like a generator, without having a special talent, but having a strong desire, through hard work, gouge that very spark out of yourself. If this spark is reborn into fire (which is given to others as a bonus at birth), then this will be an amazing genius of work.
Poet and muse
Sasha, please tell us the story of your nickname Best.
Initially, it was a nickname - Bes. I was nineteen years old, and I wanted to somehow show off. Then, through a long rethinking and the advice of others, the nickname Best appeared. Russian letters with the Latin letter t. It was decided this way, because the nickname is not much changed visually and, at the same time, does not annoy the eyes of especially religious comrades. And it has absolutely nothing to do with "the best" or anything like that. On sites where it is not allowed to combine letters in one word different languages, you have to sign as Sasha Best.
"No, I'm not a bird, I'm just trying to fly
But, for starters, at least not fall into the abyss
Falling there is painful, but useful
The main thing is to get up later.
We are not friends, but I will not leave you in trouble.
I would like to understand - what is my freedom:
Being without you is like sipping ice water
Or with you, but without the right to own you ... "
"No, I'm not a bird, I'm just trying to fly", May 31, 2009
You often write from a male perspective. Is this some kind of literary game or is it sometimes easier to express feelings this way?
I write not only from a male perspective. I'm just interested in "trying on" different images, social statuses, a different sensory perception of the world ... I think that in creativity you should not limit yourself to any specific framework.
And how do you feel about the division of poetry into male and female? Can "women's poetry" really be singled out in a separate category?
I am very ambivalent about this. With the historical change in the role of women in society, women's poetry began to acquire a more interesting shade and richer content. Before, I liked male classical poetry more, now, if we take modern authors, I am more inclined towards female poetry.
“I love Shakespeare, Rozhdestvensky, Blok, Gumilyov, Akhmatova and Tsvetaeva. Each of them made his own special contribution to the process of the emergence of a certain knowledge of poetry.
According to the famous saying, "Pushkin is our everything." And which of the poets is “everyone” for you?
To be honest, I don't really like to read poetry. There are moments when you want to, but this does not happen so often ... And I treat Pushkin more than evenly.
What is the process of creative growth in poetry? For example, artists say that in order to develop taste, a sense of composition, you need to learn from the old masters.
Everyone chooses their own path. We are all different. And we all go our own way creative way. The poet needs to learn the literacy of the language, listen to more quality music to develop a sense of rhythm, read good books and watch talented films to "renew the senses" and enrich themselves with new stories. The rest is imagination and life experience.
Often the path to poetry begins with the imitation of great authors. Tell us how to overcome this moment and develop your own style?
As a teenager, I copied Maria Semenova's poems from books about the Wolfhound into my notebook. I still remember bits and pieces of some of them. So at the age of seventeen, the first attempts to write poetry began. Imitation is good. This is a learning process. The main thing is not to forget to put the results of your imitative activity on the table at the moment when the feeling comes that you can leave the lifeline on the shore and go on your own voyage.
“Imitation is good. This is a learning process. The main thing is not to forget to put the results of your imitative activity on the table at the moment when you get the feeling that you can leave a lifeline on the shore and set off on your own voyage.
How does the sacrament of the birth of a poem take place? Does it immediately come to you “finished” or does it happen to work on individual lines for a long time?
How nice it would be if a ready-made text came to mind (laughs). Still, God would give this memory to quickly write everything down. Unfortunately, that doesn't work. Some lines come, and then you sit and think - “why did it all start?” or “well, you, comrades, have made porridge ... and how are you going to get out now?”. In this regard, some poems generally wait for their moment without a single line.
“... God knocked over a jug of milk,
And the morning got wet.
The sky full of life in the palms
It beat a little.
Something stabbed in my chest,
After - it was silent.
This is not a heart ... this is the Universe
Stopped."
"Sky with your own hands", December 27, 2009
Sasha, have you experienced a creative crisis? And how, if not a secret, do you cope with the "ups and downs of the muse"?
Yes, anything can happen ... At such moments, I just try to focus on the flow of life. If on this moment is not written, it means that my inner muses are hatching some new grandiose idea in their plans. And there is nothing to distract him with all sorts of little things. (laughs).
Sasha, are there moments when you turn to your work - reread poetry? Do you have "favorites" among your own works?
No, I try not to reread my own poetry. To be honest, I have never even read one of my collections from beginning to end. Poems are reread either at the stage of writing for the purpose of correction, or before creative evenings in order to memorize the poem and update its sensual side. Favorites, in general, too, probably not.
“A poet needs to learn literacy of the language, listen to more high-quality music to develop a sense of rhythm, read good books and watch talented films in order to “renew feelings” and be enriched with new stories”
In 2009, samizdat released your collection Soul on the Palms. In 2012, a book of poems "I invented myself" was published. Why did you decide to publish yourself? Have you tried contacting publishers to print you?
I had a moment when I applied to various publishing houses. Everywhere I was told that poetry is not relevant now. The second collection of poems was released by the sponsor on the condition that the income from the sale of online stores will go to him until he recoups his expenses, and then the income from sales will go to me. The story comes to mind: “He somehow went out for cigarettes, and we never saw him again. Apparently, it was some very rare brand of cigarettes. (laughs).
Are you planning to release a new book in the near future?
I don't plan to in the near future. We need to get more material. I see no reason to publish thin books.
The roads of fairy tales
Narrative works prevail in your lyrics. Each one is like a little story, a fairy tale or a novel... You perfectly manage to create these magical worlds filled with deep meaning, draw the smallest details... Sasha, please tell us how the plots of your poems are born? And what comes first? Does the plot “bring” the creative flow behind it, or, conversely, do plots arise in the flow?
It's simple - I really love fairy tales, I just LOVE fairy tales. And I enjoy writing them. I love how they smell, how they taste, how they finish and how magical they are. The primary record may be about the "oak door" or about the "smell of aspen in the house." It doesn't matter at all. I want to touch it all, to smell it, to be like, to poke around like magic. (smiles). And then the heroes themselves choose their own path.
“I just love fairy tales! I'm interested in writing them. I love how they smell, how they taste, how they end and what magic happens…”
What role do you think fairy tales play in a person's life?
The story is something really unique! This is an opportunity to immerse yourself in a world where everything happens differently from ours, where ordinary people acquire unusual abilities, where the power of love can absolutely everything. We just forget about it Everyday life. A fairy tale is a reminder to us of our real possibilities.
“A fairy tale is an opportunity to immerse yourself in a world where everything happens differently from ours, where ordinary people acquire unusual abilities, where the power of love can absolutely everything. We just forget about it in everyday life. A fairy tale is a reminder to us of our real possibilities.
You have a whole series of poems about cats. Many readers rewrite the poem "The Cat and its Man" in their notebooks and memorize it. Why are cats often the inspiration for your poetry?
I'll start with the sad part - I'm allergic to cats. But as a child, all yard cats were mine. They secretly left all the sausage from the refrigerator. And they also have a unique superpower, along with seals and raccoons - the rounder the cat, the more beautiful it is. I guess I'm just jealous of them (laughs).
“In dusty Moscow, an old house with two stained-glass windows
It was built in some sort of 11th century.
Nearby lived a dazzling black cat
A cat that the Man loved very much.
No, not friends. The cat just noticed him.
Squinted a little, as if looking at the light
Her heart was beating... Oh, how her heart was murmuring!
If at a meeting he quietly whispered to her: "Hello" ... "
"The Story of the Cat and its Man", April 28, 2008
Tales of the Bear is a ballad about bitter, inconsolable love. The heroine turns to the witch for advice and gives her heart to the she-bear in order not to suffer anymore. Sasha, have you experienced the feeling of unrequited love? Does the poet himself have to go through suffering in order to convey the whole gamut of feelings so piercingly?
I think that in the life of every person there was a story of unrequited love. This is such a necessary stage of knowing the depths of your heart, not only for the poet, but for every person.
“... But I decided. And, thinking, I did.
Feelings petrified, and tears dripped.
The terrible bear roared and
She gently hugged my heart with her paws.
And without a heart in a moment - the head is like a drunk.
I don't want to endure his pain.
Let yourself pound, damned,
In the terrible mouth of the beast, humbly crouched.
In my head so easily, enthusiastically.
In the Grove of the Fallen, the sky glows kindly.
Only people heard - on the path untrodden
A bear roars in inconsolable grief.
"The Tale of the Bear", October 16, 2015
In the poem "Wolf Tales" you create a mystical, bewitching atmosphere. I think that many readers, like myself, get goosebumps when reading it. How did the idea to write this piece come about? Why did you decide to turn to the topic of girl fortune-telling?
I can’t say for sure why the idea of fortune-telling came to my mind at that moment, but when we were teenagers, sometimes we indulged in fortune-telling. At all times, girls were interested in looking into the future and finding out who their betrothed was. But sometimes it's better to leave things as they are. Everything has its time.
“... What is frozen, Marusya? Rather sit on my back.
You will see how the leaves sparkle with colors in the night.
But in our area before me any girl
The steppe creeps"
The moon faded. Silence reigned in the chamber.
Marusya started up, flew up like a turtledove.
In the reflection in the mirror, screaming, she threw the candlestick
The night is over…”
"Wolf Tales", February 15, 2015
Voices from outside
How much do people around you influence your creativity?
More often than not, the impact is not very positive. I am a little annoyed by the questions: “Well, how? Is there something new? Not written? And why? Write something!!!" If you want to know if there are new verses, go to the page and look. Why so many extra questions? The strangest question is “why is it not written”.
How important is reader recognition to you?
Let's just say, I enjoy being read. Of course, we all share our work in order to be read. But I don't really worry if someone doesn't like what I write. Everyone has their own tastes.
Sasha, do you write poetry to order?
Yes, I am writing. I am not one of those people who say: "Money ruins creativity!" It's okay to get paid for your hobby.
“If a competent person writes a negative review, then he is doing you a favor - he points out your mistakes. We must sincerely thank such people and rule.”
Can a bad review of your poems ruin your mood?
No, he can not. If a competent person writes a negative review, then he is doing you a favor - he points out your mistakes. We must sincerely thank such people and rule. But more often such reviews are written by trolls with the aim of hurting or offending. Every person just needs to remember that trolls do this from a lack of love. Therefore, we either thank them for their efforts, or ignore them.
You often hold literary evenings where you read your poems. How do you feel about when other people read your work?
I think it's wonderful! I remember as a teenager, I asked a girl musician to write the chords and lyrics for a song that I really liked. The answer was: "Only I can sing this song." So, I think that not only I can read my poems. And it's just unrealistically cool when it's not only me who reads them.
Life is ordinary
How comfortable do you feel in Moscow? Do you ever think about moving to a place more conducive to creativity?
So I've been here since birth. (smiles). I love Moscow! As they say - everywhere is good, but at home is better. Even on vacation I miss home, no matter how good I feel.
Sasha, please describe a typical day in your life.
I have the most ordinary days of the most ordinary life (smiles). Work home. Sometimes various events and meetings with friends in a cafe or for board games. I'm not a very active person for diversity.
"You have changed. I may be too.
We draw art with chalk on the skin
Herd feeling - not to be different.
Being different is a banal feeling.
A stroke of watercolor is mediocre in gestures
Accuracy in words does not lead to ideal
Scarlet draw delight and bliss
Only we draw perfection not scarlet ... "
"Coma", July 11, 2009
Is poetry your main occupation? Or do you have to combine creativity with other work?
Poetry is a hobby. Sometimes, of course, I have to take on various projects, but this is not my main activity. I work in Rosatom.
How do you like to spend free time? Do you have any hobby?
I don’t have a lot of free time, so usually it’s spent watching some interesting movie with a cup of coffee or working on another fairy tale that never ends. (smiles).
Sasha, tell us a little about your family. Is your husband creative too?
My husband is a saxophonist, so we often hear music in our house.
Do you have any saying or quote that helps you in difficult times?
Quote with which I go through life: “There is no way out. Happiness is inevitable! Suitable for any occasion.
Instead of a postscript...
Anna Akhmatova described inspiration as a guest "with a pipe in her hand", in front of which all the honors of the world are nothing. What inspiration would you come up with?
You are missing intravenously and intramuscularly.
How can you not be jealous without me? How not to write?
Between us is a forte sign, honey, listen with your fingers.
How can you not dream with absolute flair?
Piano, honey, piano. So it turned out - the fire is not treated.
He is not extinguished with tears, that's enough, dear, there's nothing!
Dominant - flash, timelessness, obsession ...
Think in notes and burn in yourself, to hell with the genius!
Here, a third lower, so sensual. Very embarrassing.
It's better than sex than love... Come on, let's get started.
Louder, dear, louder! Hit the keys more often.
Move your nerves exactly to the beat, you'll do great.
Poison between thoughts. Neglecting etiquette is troublesome.
The hall is standing, waiting for an encore. The spectator cries, rejoices, claps.
Kisses - legato, tenderness along the spine.
And some major with a diagnosis of a night owl
Whispers something, out of tune, in a hurry and goes astray.
Yes, it often happens, but it doesn't happen often.
Take everything for yourself - this is only your standing ovation.
Only, dear, do you hear, you don’t need to put your fingers into the soul.
Alice
"It's getting weirder and weirder," Alice thought suddenly,
When she came out of the hole into the real world.
About a little lady with a naive-fox look,
That she came out of a coma has already been disheveled by the media.
"Good news - Alice Liddell woke up" -
Newspaper headlines are screaming, TV is squealing.
And they hang a child's portrait like a cardboard idol,
Tired of standing knee-deep in someone else's love.
In the hospital, she dreams of a smiling cat and a rabbit,
Vanilla skies, broken mirrors.
Alice laughs wildly to tears and colic,
It suddenly becomes as if death is white.
Her psychiatrist Dr. Dodgson flips through the map
Shrug his hands, they say, if only, but "alas"
She returns to a coma, to Morpheus, to tartar.
She doesn't care what you call this world.
And the doctor says: "There will be no improvement,"
That she's in a coma, maybe she's having colorful dreams.
Alice has been in a miracle for the seventeenth year,
Which her family misses so much.
Arbiter
Ten thousand years of breaking the taboo:
You dreamed not to rule, but to rule.
You sculpted me, biting your lip,
From the transparent threads of your soul.
Somewhere at the end of bodily strength
You made me up, but why?
I you, you, you know, did not ask
About eyes that are brighter than any candles,
About hands that are stronger than dumb stones.
I left and wandered for many years.
Only the light that shone in me
Turned out to be sequin off your cuffs
I came to you to lie at your feet,
Realizing the insignificance of their victories.
“How can I become myself? Perfection. How?
Teach me, I pray, "I told you
And looked lovingly into your eyes
In them the grass caressed its dew.
"Please don't leave me
You please draw me"
Here is the path until dawn
Somewhere on the edge of my soul.
"You, please don't forget me.
Please write me down"
You stroked my head
He took a deep breath and told him to leave.
The story of a cat and her man
It was built in some sort of 11th century.
Nearby lived a dazzling black cat
A cat that the Man loved very much.
No, not friends. The cat just noticed him.
Squinted a little, as if looking at the light
Her heart was beating... Oh, how her heart was murmuring!
If, at a meeting, he quietly whispered to her: "Hi"
No, not friends. The cat just let him
Stroking yourself. She sat down on her knees.
In the park one day she was walking with a man
He suddenly fell. Well, the cat suddenly went crazy.
A neighbor howled, a siren ... An ambulance rushed.
What was going on in everyone's head?
The cat was silent. She was not his cat.
It just so happened that… that was her Human.
The cat was waiting. Didn't sleep, didn't drink or eat.
Meekly waited for the light to appear in the windows.
I just sat. And even turned a little gray.
After all, he will return, and quietly whisper to her: "Hi"
In dusty Moscow, an old house with two stained-glass windows
Minus seven lives. And minus another century.
He smiled, "Were you really waiting for me, Cat?"
"Cats do not wait ... Stupid, stupid you are my Man"
Monologue with God
Hello! How are you? How is the family? Well, I...
Well, the first pancake is lumpy.
But we don't know you, my God.
So let's get to know each other.
Family? Two cats, cockroaches and me.
Yes, yes, I am the one.
Oh, if it's not difficult, please, scribble
Autograph for mom.
But what are you doing here on earth?
I died? Sadly…
I don't even know what to do now...
Maybe for tea?
And it's too late to say that someone appreciated
Taste of life drama...
And yet, please, you scribble
Autograph for mom.
We are iron, Baby
It's like salsa, baby, it's like I love you.
It's like a proud look at the extinct South.
We are from the North, baby, with a heart like a bear.
"Az, Buki, Lead ..."
It's like a wound, baby, you need to squeeze harder.
We are thick skinned. You know, they're not valued.
We are strange, baby is a lost feather.
"Verb, Good..."
It's like faith, baby. It's like the milky way.
Standing on the roof, does not pull from it to step.
We are iron, baby, we meet problems head-on.
"Eat, Live, Zelo"
It's like pride, baby. It's like outrageous.
Our signature life experience with you.
I'll rewind time, just ask.
"... Izhitsa, Fita, Psi."
The sky today did not look for reasons
The sun and the wind burned with a strange thirst.
Someone said: "We met here once
Bird Girl and the simplest man "
We went to the cinema together and read Bach,
Together they laughed at the tenderness and the weather.
They honestly shared their hardships with the sea.
The sea wept with joy and fear.
People looked askance at them, and birds too.
Who invented it: Together. Publicly. Strange.
Their beaks stuck into the window frames.
(People and birds, albeit in this, are so similar.)
The flock that day did not undertake to find out the reasons.
Someone said, "We won't accept the wingless into the pack."
Two left. But everyone saw how they take off
Bird Girl and the simplest man.
Uninvited guest
The doors are bolted, the trolls on chains guard peace.
Shoes in bells. Rats don't poke their noses out of their holes.
The hostess has a guest. This means that bonfires will be lit that night.
Instead of Red roses in a ghostly garden there are angelica and burdock.
“What do you miss, guest? Here wine is a river. Pour and drink!”
Fingers in silver, comb drowned in black hair.
The mistress of that hip is wide, but the braid is tight.
The mistress of that toad in the cellars, the potion in the cauldron.
"Hey servant, come here! Come to the guest and add some wine.
You can't go through all the forest-fields, all the roads-steppes.
Here wine is a river. What do you miss, guest? Pour and drink!”
Only the glorious guest does not eat food, but does not drink wine.
“Forget your house, forget your wife, forget your children.
Hey servant, go! Make a fire, make a bed"
But in the presence of a guest, cauldrons do not boil, bonfires do not burn.
Madam Mosque: mist in her hair, a terrible growl in her throat:
“You offend, guest, I’m with you with my soul, you have your back to me.
What did you come here with? Why are you silent, oh, my uninvited one?
Only a strange guest, throwing off his hood, got up from the table.
Quietly said: “What are you doing, half-sister?
How dare you break the law of the Ancient Kings?
Hey servant, come here! Go to the Lady, pour some wine"
The mistress's hand suddenly trembled, her back hunched over.
A goblet in silver, in a goblet that wine, and at the bottom of wine.
The lady cries: “Please, have mercy, my Lord,
You are Light, brother, you are wise, brother… you are not like that!”
He ran his hand over her cheeks, over her lips.
"It's like before, right? You are dear to me, but my fate ...
Calls to honor and observe the law. Drink my sister
It was an order. Sorry buddy, I gotta go."
All clocks are on. This castle has always been like this.
Drinking wine. Fires don't burn. Floors don't creak.
Where the palace stood, the steppe spread out, and in the steppe - wormwood.
Lost Soul Appraiser
"Personal file" lies on the edge of the table ...
Late call... "Honey, I'm on business"
He is going: hat, watch, jacket..
And Darling straightens his scarf
And chatters that it is necessary to come to six -
Mom will come (with a revision) to visit.
He just sighs, nods, kisses her on the forehead.
He thinks “it would be better if a tsunami ... a plague ... a flood ...”
Soup is boiling on the stove at Darling -
Black as coal ancient German cloak,
And behind his back are two luxurious gray wings.
Hide the shadow of indifference under the hood -
Profession property - "Darling, I went"
Whiskey with ice and a cigar relieve stress.
Time flows like sand and flows faster.
At home, he is a wise father and a wonderful husband.
Well, for you, he is an appraiser of lost souls.
Requiem for the Soul
My beautiful creator created me with love,
He called me the Word and in the word was the Soul.
He carved my heart, it beat the rhythm.
I kept thinking - will this knocking bother me?
My beautiful creator loved me the most.
Even more than the one in the red hat with the colored plume.
He wrapped me up in fur, as if I were real,
He sewed dresses for me and baked jellied pie on Wednesdays.
And today, on a windless day at the end of winter,
The hall bell rang, the cat meowed.
A stranger entered the house from the cool winter darkness.
My beautiful creator, well, who is she? Who? Who?
He looked at her as if spring had come,
As if She exuded a magical light.
He turned pale, he may have been ill, and then she
She smiled warmly and openly at him in return.
If I were a girl ... well, a real one at all,
Of course, my stomach would ache a lot.
Her and I are like twins: face, hands, dress, corset ...
But She did not APPEAR, but EXACTLY was alive.
If I were a girl... I would lose my strength.
On Her eyelashes, fluffy snow softly melted.
Lips trembled, compressed, but I could not ask
“When you created me, did you dream of Her?”
Silver
Ringing. My heart is broken.
Thunder in the middle of a clear sky:
He named his sister Gold
I am only Silver.
My prince, I have been devoted to you all my life
For what, radiant prince?
Why is my heart poor
Have you trampled into the dirt with a word?
All day I wandered through the forest.
I couldn't sleep all night.
Resentment with a snake belt
Suffocated my spring.
"Grandma, dear, dear,
Grandma, how is it?
I don't have enough strength to forget.
My dream is on fire.
May your sister be happy.
I pray for her - God will give.
Let it shine like the bright sun
Her star is in the sky
She said: "Let me be old
But I see - another young man
Your sister wishes
Grandma laughed: “From a young age
Reply well to everything...
Our prince, indifferent to gold,
Always chose silver.
Tale of Ivan the Fool and Autumn
“Listen, Ivan the Fool,
Let Autumn kiss passionately
But you wait -
Don't follow her.
Who knows what lies ahead."
The fool-Ivan did not listen to his sister.
I did not believe her reasonable words.
For red beauty
He runs barefoot
To return the belt to her.
“But remember, Ivan the Fool,
Following Autumn is a rider with a sword.
In ancient armor
On a red horse
He follows her shadow."
The fool Ivan did not listen to his sister.
After all, autumn is dizzy.
He ran up to her
Pressed so hard
That a fire was burning in the heart.
“Well, what have you done, Ivan the Fool?
Are you in a hurry to die?" -
beauty laughed,
And tears in my eyes
They shone like a shadow in images.
Ivanushka the Fool whispered to her.
Like, fool, even death is uneasy.
"And even though I'm not yours,
But I'm behind you
I will go both in the cold and in the heat.
With the eyes of a weary executioner.
The rider who was silent all the time.
Suddenly he drew his sword
Then to cut
Ivanov's head off his shoulders.
And they don't really know how the day has sunk.
Some madman wandered like a shadow.
But there is a rumor
That battle was
Such that the grass is red.
Here Autumn has passed, and Ivan has disappeared.
But somewhere I heard these words:
"In ancient armor
On a red horse
He follows her shadow."
Strange people
Can I get a heart tattoo?
To not forget...
The heart is a muscle, not a skin.
Therefore, it will be painful - difficult.
Let it be hard
The main thing is that forever.
So... Do you agree?
I feel a little sorry for you...
As you said…? Hot?
Yes Yes! You're right!
Today is especially hot!
After all, summer is...
- …late fall.
At eight o "clock? Yes! Definitely eight!
I have to leave at eight.
To forget along the way ...
All. I finished.
I didn't feel pain at all...
Will. When you want to bring.
Or just... just burn out...
Ah, yes... it remains only to survive.
Tomorrow is just a Saturday
day and then back to work.
... to drown the pain in worries.
What am I all of a sudden? I have to go!
Summer indeed. Sun. Heat…
Suddenly burst into tears. Gone.
Pain to collect bit by bit.
Strange bird people.
slow death pills
When you come I will fall asleep on your lap
You will give me pills for slow death
Up to his neck in his caramel laziness.
And the check for the sale of the soul will be sent to us in an envelope
When you come, I will share a secret with you
Battle of kings and queens:
Power, debauchery, recognition of the people.
Coat of arms of war - winged lion
aristocratic breed
A battle for life or death
Just like that, to avoid boredom.
Some stupid twist
State close to science.
Night of love, and in the morning a knife in the back
Everything is fine, boring as before.
Meaning in a crazy game
In thin lies, in scattered clothes
Bird Girl and the simplest man
The sky today did not look for reasons
The sun and the wind burned with a strange thirst.
Someone said: "We met here once
Bird girl and the simplest »
Together we went to and read Bach,
Together they laughed at the tenderness and the weather.
They honestly shared their hardships with the sea.
The sea wept with joy and fear.
People looked askance at them, and birds too.
Who invented it: Together. Publicly. Strange.
Beak-noses stuck in window frames
(People and birds, even in this, but so similar)
The flock that day did not undertake to find out the reasons.
Someone said: "We will not accept the wingless in the pack"
Two left. But everyone saw how they take off
Bird Girl and the simplest man.
Soultouch
The night blossomed into a blue halo.
You look into my eyes.
Somewhere on the roof guitar solo
And the first thing
A feeling of embarrassment: I seem to remember
But bursts quiet:
Light, rain, window sill
And Breakfast at Tiffany's.
After the "clinical" you will come out of a coma
Marked by fate.
Let's pretend we don't know each other
So…
Second counter.
Tutti heir doll
You play with me
You scare in the spring.
I haven't slept all day.
I look out
How spring conjures
Like ducks flock to the fountain.
I laugh out of place
And hair falls
Flows gracefully down the back.
In this cage of shadows
I admire mine.
I am an unwilling free bird.
I am your old whim -
clockwork
In a bright dress, but dim, in fact.
A dream like rock
I am a circus performer Suok
Not Tutti's heir.
Are you jealous of me
Every breath I take and every glance
Every step I take towards the open door.
I will remain myself.
I won't be different
If you stop believing in me.
We are together today.
On my wrist
Invisible droplets of mercury.
I dance to tears
I play seriously.
I'm Tutti's heir doll.
My, I know you're very sick...
My boy, I know you are very sick
You're too straight to believe in
Your guardian angel whispers: "Enough"
Your guardian demon whispers: "I won't"
And lips fade in a blind fever
And fingers in agony wrinkle the blanket
And the heart groans in an absurd leap
The heart screams: "I'm tired ... tired!"
Breath wheezes out,
Empty eyes, the candle burns out
Your angel whispers through tears: "No need"
And the demon hunched over: "He's dying"
Your eyes are unusually sad
Tears are sealed under the weight of the eyelids
Silence covered your lips
When the stars fell on the eyelashes
I asked a question, waiting for an answer
But the sky, frowning, was silent for a long time
And the angel and the demon disappeared with the dawn,
And with them, by the hand, the soul flew away.
Almost like love
Under the cooling coffee, maple rusts cool.
Symptoms of autumn wrapped in a scarf,
For the sixteenth time I remember that I'm in love
In the honey redness in which the soul lives.
As a homeless dog, I throw myself at her feet,
To beg for affection and maybe something to eat.
And the birds, packing their belongings, fly to the south,
In your bird's flight, where the heat lives in the forecast.
I would give up with them, but, alas, snot, cough,
Fear of heights, millions of other reasons.
I'll think of them if you come to me tomorrow,
And I will get sick if you treat me.
Under the freezing coffee you will save me
And touch my wet dog nose
Change refrigerators on the forehead and give a lick
Sour lemon with a wish for sweet dreams.
Wrap me in a blanket, you'll be waiting
So that I cool down, so that I become 36.6
And it's almost like love, how to get drunk to give
Cold water to my parched soul.
stockholm syndrome
The yellow sun froze in hot parkour -
A gloomy artist draws a sunset with strokes.
In this sunset, my Angel smokes thoughtfully.
It is necessary to tie, but it will not quit in any way.
By the will of fate, we are ruthlessly-.
By the will of heaven, we, rebelling, create.
You love me the same as before, painfully,
Knowing that I'm already life, I've lost interest in you.
Walking on my heels, hugging me like you're strangling me.
This Stockholm Syndrome is eating, growing.
Do you need me. Why something desperately needed.
I make a diagnosis - "tacitly guilty of everything."
I take you for granted
Like one of the faceless, unsuited crowd.
How else? After all, who will I become for you then,
If I die my proud ruthless fervor?
I feed on you when I'm thirsty.
But why do I sometimes repeat in my sleep?
"How can I let you go when one day...
If one day you suddenly grow cold towards me?
Your eyes are as simple as dew
Your eyes are as simple as dew
What will disappear with a ray of dawn
You are good at throwing
Leaving love unanswered
And the words are true
They also hurt - cruelly and cleanly
Believing that is a lie
You fell in love extremely quickly
Your thoughts are like nonsense
What turns red during a fever
Your fingers bring the dawn
After a long painful sleep
Your feelings are a hot volcano
Where other people's vices burn
I fell into your trap forever
Suddenly collided with you on the road.
You once joked that time heals...
A soft shawl over wounded shoulders
Spread across the sky
You once joked that time heals
I believed, because I was not sick myself.
On the day of immortality in a glass of sour red
The tape of life was measured by hours
You told me all the time: "Love is dangerous"
But at the same time he kept silent that you love yourself.
Light haze through closed eyelids
The dreams of Morpheus inspired
Did you ever say "friends forever"
But that you lied, I understood myself.
Fine shot of fireproof buckshot
The stars timidly sprinkled the sky
You once told me that time heals
This is true. For those who have not been sick themselves.
I saw you and forgot how to breathe
I saw you and forgot how to
And the heart struck fourteen times and fell silent
And how to beat him, it's a pity, but it's not for me to decide
After all, it is not even possible, immobilizing the latch
When I saw you, I forgot that I could speak
Painful heat admiringly explored the neck
And the night predicted all this ecstasy to repeat
And reality became more transparent, and cheeks paler
Touching you, I realized that I had not lived before
After all, how is it to live without touching graceful palms?
And the rain from the foliage took my thoughts and turned them around
And feelings rushed about on a leash by a flock of crows
When I saw you, I understood what it means to love
One kiss will overturn heavenly distances
It's a pity your name will have to be forgotten one day
But I won't forget how you and I flew together
Feeling in the rhythm of the rain
In the rhythm of the rain in my head is disgusting - empty.
Fingers go numb when you're around.
How can I describe this strong feeling?
It's… as stinging at first sight.
As if we both surrender to each other without a fight.
I would call this feeling emotional trauma.
You would call this feeling crazy love.
You know, we're both right in our own way.
