Evfrosiniya’s hut.
Nostalgic Russian landscape.
A three-horse in the snow rushes through the forest.
It’s as cold as the North Pole.
Sviridov wrote a suite for Mandelstam and orchestra.
Two decrepit old ladies, widowed brides.
There’s no one to say a word to, it’s so lonely.
Holy Russia is waiting for a New God –
a good, different One, without the blood of a lamb.
The child’s cry breaks the eardrums.
What do I do? Nothing.
Neither an ambulance will help, nor a non-ambulance.
I got even with the old past.
Where is it, White Stone with three-story alleys?
The thought creeps along in the rhythm of a paranoid adagio.
Two shadows flickered and disappeared.
The gigglers went mad with laughter.
In the zoo, instead of elephants, there are two Minnesingers.
A mafia speaker was detained in the Duma.
Slush. Bad weather. City churchyards.
It is not easy to get out to freedom
abroad – beyond the border of the past, from which there are pictures.
The rustic landscape is completed by two self-aware cretins.
The priest prays in the ruined temple ruins.
The Newagers were caught in a restaurant eating fried food.
Pasternak was paralyzed by thoughts in Peredelkino.
Small thieves trade in the entrances.
Vanish, Russia, with the archetype gone awry.
Even half a day in the neighborhood, even if you live in it for a century –
nothing but a statuette of the Third Roman Empire.
You don’t know who they believed in or what they believed in.
On the snow in the slush, the masks of Chagall, Picasso.
Waiting for a neighbor near the house is completely in vain.
Nonsense is played on the telly for zatyukannyh pensioners.
The mafioso boasts of a hologram faith.
The sexton is lying drunk in a ravine overgrown with reeds.
Russia has long been a concentration camp.
The city’s food service is served by vohra.
The authorities are great masters of wet cases.
The fugitive was killed.
Hitchhike to the train station.
On the first train – and anywhere,
far away, to be carried into the distant past.
The fields stand with piggy fears unkempt.
I’m sure I’ve never been there.
Domnikovka has been wiped off the face of the earth.
Voronok stopped at the entrance at half past three…
A shepherd dog and two guards followed the trail.
A bandurist lost an Orpheus lyre in a garbage dump.
There’s a foxtrot on the radio. The boiler room is under repair.
An old woman about a hundred years old lost her husband at the front.
So what? And nothing. There is half a liter and fine.
Voronok suspiciously stands at the front door.
How about me? Yes, I… yes, you that? What’s that got to do with me?
And after the slandered one, snowballs fly.
Near the garbage dump, the marriage chambers are located.
The hallucinatory landscape presents an unearthly spectacle.
In place of the Charge an automatic frontal place:
you press the button, and you are left with a wet spot.
I’m so useless.
I’ll send you my hundredth self portrait without an address.
When I’m about a hundred years old – I’ll order mass in the little church.
As for the material conditions not picky.
There are rags on the table, wrapped in underwear.
The moth ate a book that had been read to hell.
Debts above the head I will pay off somehow at once.
It’s good to die for musical ecstasy.
Send the funeral to such and such an address.
The neighbor liked the practice of psychoanalysis.
A psychopath is sorting papers, an official servant.
The villagers curse the administrator in unison.
I’m not yours. And you are not my offspring.
I paid off my debts in full, without a trace.
And what do I care about your half-abandoned wrecks?
I’d like to take an innocent convict on bail
and get him out of my sight.
A truck stopped across the road.
The driver fell asleep on alarm.
He dreams of the territory of the garden city.
Homeless people are allowed to go there for free.
I don’t know how to make friends.
Army? a church service?
You’d go crazy looking at the bloodstains.
Born and die in Russia for free –
near a mental hospital, a tavern, on the stage of the theater.
Wolf’s Eye is a poet’s sensitive audience.
Three times I was born and died of grief.
Telegraph poles are lying around like railway sleepers.
That’s it. Be content with little.
The cat moans at night with an akathist voice.
The eye follows Atas hungrily.
An innocent person will be captured, put away for half a day.
The fear of death even at the North Pole is a bug.
Bless the crosses, the mounds, the sextons, and the graves.
The idiot stands alone at the fork in the road.
He backs away. Who would take a hitchhiker.
Get a job with a billionaire as a slave.
The chorales are heard from the other world.
Devils are found on the Little Bear.
On the crowns of the trees, the snow-covered Gospel is crying.
The layman does not distinguish General Krasnov from Wrangel.
There’s nowhere to look, nothing to see. Skewed.
For a quarter of a century, old Russia has gone crazy.
The houses are without electricity and guests.
Grandmothers do not sell cottage cheese and eggs at railway stations.
Without a residence permit, you will split in the police station under torture.
I’m not a prominent person.
Leave me alone.
A cow was harnessed to the cart instead of a bull.
Cross on the forehead. A sign that sooner or later they will kill you.
Only the ignorant have illusions here.
Nothing will change, even if you shout a good obscenity,
even if you smoke incense with grace.
Well, what metaphors and ringing quatrains?
For thousands of versts – silence, calm.
Under the snow, the dead men staged a violent drunkenness,
and the funnel at the entrance is waiting early in the morning…