2020.06.29.
Boringness
Late autumn: cold and slippery like a dead fish.Chilling air blows in my face
While snowflakes jump under my collar.
I am living through my last days in this city,
And, obviously, wallow in them.
By the way, my head is messed.
In Gorky street, however, I habitually ascend to the second floor,
(It only looks like that this door has aged a bit),
Then my feet tread a grey chippy pavement,
Near the river which rivers are bound in stone.
[It's one of] these walks in Leningradsky, Moscow and Central districts 1
Till the evening, till the night,
When you feel to the fool that
Live springs at day,
While at night everything freezes and somewhere in distance
A lonely lighthouse shines.
City lights its lights in the night.
(I will return here only next Monday.)
At the end of November the amber light
Flows right from a lamp post.
Orange light hangs on trees like snowflakes,
Falls on earth and melts there in a moment.
Night eats all the light leaving only shadows behind.
At night jazz music is heard in the city,
The snow falls swirling from the skies,
And as if in a nightmare,
I feel like there is no life, and never has been one,
And only a chain of lights flows away somewhere.
At night it's better to stay away from everything.
Night life covers the canvas of the city like lifeless paint:
In neon lights, behind the knots of phrases
I go down the quack-mire of my thoughts, walking knee-deep in mud,
I'm high on dope, as if in delirium,
Fighting off the demons of my visions with the last ounces of strength –
The shadow of autumn have covered my brain with some blanket:
First it stung with sharp daggers of rain,
And then covered The Isle and Moscow prospect in fluffy snow.
The busses at the stops, clanking by steel mouths of their doors,
Swallow the passengers.
Thick and viscous snow flows over Pregel.
Time has stopped still like blood in veins, the coil has winded,
I've been swallowed by the night life.
Here the yellow eyes of windows glow
And thick crowds gather near my house under my balcony.
And us? What about us?
Noise of tramway all over the bridge, dogs' howl all over the yards.
Hey, wait, it's all the same like today.
Fragments of thoughts late in the night in late autumn in snow-covered city,
Where a blanked of dirty snow is dropped on the pavements.
I have got the blues from the music of a long-dead negro 2.
'Mood Indigo'. Listening to the old tune by Dyke Ellington,
The tired city falls into sleep.
I am on the outskirts, in a bar.
Wrapped in my memories as if in a warm coat,
Without haste, gulp by gulp, I drink whiskey with ice.
The snow-covered house across the street,
Silently turns off its windows as of winking to me.
I've seen it somewhere, but I have to go home,
And the rustle of my steps also dissolves in the noise of the wind.
Silence and snow, and I have to go around 500 meters to my home…
That's right. But how difficult it is!
The last rouble rattles in the pocket of a drunk man.
Finally, the front door opens, and I dive in…
Late autumn, late night
Late autumn, late night
Late autumn, late night
Late autumn, late night
Late autumn, late night