A keresés eredménye

A Copy

I don't want to go to work tomorrow,
Step in for me.
Here, take my skin, put it on
So they don't recognize.
Here's also, here's also
My hair
So that you be indistinguishable, so that you be like me,
So that there's no giveaway,
So that you see like I see,
So that you scream like me.
Why don't y'all live in my world of books?
 
At midnight I came in all in dust,
Emptied my sack.
I dumped out all the bad trips,
The nausea, the small coins.
Come here, look, come here, sniff,
Tinker it up, have some.
The stardust from my young shoes,
Dissolve it in wine1
And life comes first, but you've seen everything,
Same old days, but you know everything.
Why don't y'all live in my world of books?
 
Copy & paste me into you
With the nib of a needle, with the pinpoint of a line,
With the main reef.
Certified true and not so bad copy,
Sit by my side for a while.
Why don't y'all live in my world of books?
 

• 1. Possibly an allusion to a tale by Venya D'rkin where if someone walks one thousand cities, then the dust from his shoes dissolved in wine would make elixir of life.

Communication Tube

My grin tears my face ear to ear
Because of the two-weeks old beliashes. 1
Jogging in spot in my heart.
Naked women fluttered about,
I was drawing a hole in the wallpaper
With a pencil.
Leprosy's sad, plague drinks,
Accordions in madhouses shriek.
Some loose change for treatment.
They drove me out with a stick from the roadway
Where I laid my head.
The priests laugh: 'Get away!'
Because they've fooled these beggars
In the yellow narrow windows.
A green frowsy corridor,
The tunnel of bunkhouses and bureaus.
Whoever love or despise me,
It's a communication tube.
Losing my religion.
 
A rat's scraping inside the wall, can you hear it?
 
A muggy field, Tyoply Stan2,
A teacher walking between the school desks,
Spitting into copy-books and diaries
While in his soul there's a hangover
And the wind of the orange line3.
A man in a tired old cap with a tired old face
Smells of shit.
A portable electric coffin,
The abyssal howling of wombs
Squeezes throuh the scorched throat.
On a sweaty bed sheet
We'll see Nietzsche on a horse,
And he will hug us lovingly,
A common man like you, a common man like me
In a wifebeater shirt.
So all the junk spilled
And dribbled before our eyes.
Meat leftovers on the floor.
We take the needle
Of effortless holiness,
Of childish insolence,
Of wise tastelessness.
 
A rat's scraping inside the wall, can you hear it?
 

• 1. See
• 2. A neighborhood in Southern Moscow
• 3. Line #6 in Moscow metro going to Tyoply Stan