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Sound version

* * *
to Oscar Wilde & Roman Viktiuk
the theater launches with the gallows for the actors

he's approaching the stage 
his hands are tied with stage light rays
his body's being bathed with the resonant echo
of his steps
he's starting his dance
from the fortuitous foot change
breaks through the persistent meter
muscles contracting
head's stretching out
heart is crashing against the stomach in
the heart stiffens in stony idol of prophet
how to tear apart the footlights
and the sound of the rocking fate?
how to rip off the flash
from the mask - hush-sh-sh-sh
is there a woman on the stage?
don't breath
you - the king don't - smell her scent
don't watch her with her eyes
they'll burn - don't
he's dancing his dance
last step 
on the stage
he's loosing the rhythm
he stumbles against the dazzling shield

of a woman with the flowing hair 
dancing for the king
longing to touch the lips
of the prophet growing numb

the head falling


Ladies and gentlemen!
Please keep your seats clean!
SERMON aristotle liked fables nabokov - young girls and this one likes god and the vault of the subway good morning have you had a good breakfast and god you're not alone gods you're going to work hands of christ and your head aches in the morning remember remember the lord lords they eat for you they fight for you the negroes African Americans the negroes African Americans are gods jesus sheds his blood so you can eat chicken wings with diet coke remember eat and remember de sade whipped wenches and wrote poetry wrote mishima and committed hara-kiri and this one doesn't shave his ears and talks about love to the lord
THE THINKER I'm the yard-keeper of the Universe. I'm walking and picking some scraps and some stumps of enjoyments of others. The work is not hard but requires a sort of good manners and bows. Tall keepers are not in the fashion therefore. To make it more easy, invented I stick for unpickable pieces. I got used to use it quite fast, however it's not too much honor to deal with small things, even a keeper does his the best. In short, all the garbage collect I together, consequently sort it in order to make it nice looking in meaning of others. And this is not hard, Although sometimes I get them quite weird: a wet piece of paper on face of it, but in fact it appears as totally formless. Then, being indignant I simply make fire: it devours all; and new cities appear in flame where no one make garbage; and no need in yard-keeper. I'm the yard-keeper of the Universe who dreams that the Universe merely will not exist once.


I say: the Universe appears in three substances.

I talk: the substance of the language. Approximation. Conjunction.

There exists a form of being, the form of essential independent of my perception. And there is something transcendental, essential: unobservable, unrecognizable, in-expressible. And there exist I. What am I?

The essence of the language is meaning.

The empirical presents itself as subjects, whose phenomena I could perceive only by means of their interaction with me. I sit on the chair; I eat bread; I sleep in bed. The subject embodies itself by dint of actions: it performs actions on me, and I per-form actions on it. But what is embodied?

The transcendental. The formless. The meant. There is something inaccessible - in me; in me as in the container holding a part of the whole, the Universe. This part is the whole because it is indivisible. I am a link between the meant and the meaning, between the transcendental and the empirical, between the whole and it's subjective form.

I observe. I perceive. My perception is based on sensations: approximate, inappro-priate, even not referring to the subject of perception. My sensations are a casual form covering the subject; particles of the language weave this form.

The empirical, the action, is expressed in the language by the verb. All forms of the essential are perceived in the action. The verb is a part of the language expressing the action.

The transcendental is unchangeable, static, true. It does not have to do anything; it already exists, always and everywhere. It is essential; the noun expresses it.

The essential presents itself to me in the form of actions. The way it affects me is my sensations; I am.

An ability to feel is my goodness; an attempt to describe what has been felt, an useless effort to do it, is my cross to bear. Approximation, incapability, incomplete-ness of description is I, a Poet, a link between the transcendental and the empirical. But describing is my sole ability to express. Talking about characteristics of action I pick up the adverb. Formulating the statement about the essential I address the adjec-tive. It is beautiful, sonorous, but wrong.

A speech of the poet: epithets thrashing around the field of language between the (regularly) moving verbs and the resting nouns.



Furniture is a subject of life mode
or not:
of existence.
of laying beyond
is state
of the verb:
Deed is
the zeal
of language. So,


(It) stands for
As (it) stood
As (it) will stand

is hidden

is strained as
There is no
There is no
There is


a comfortable


Lying beyond:

wings under the elbows
in time with the room
time ago
always and everywhere

in it
The link of ages
not beginning
not terminating
-- the Poet.

* * *

The armchair in snow
in forest

It's warm in the house
and dark

The snow lights up the woods
the field and a part of window
The house is dark

The snow climbs up the roof
and almost falls down the porch
The house is dark again

The snow gets pissed and down
right by the window, but
the house is dark anew
and warm

There's a snowfall in the woods
Terrible frost

But it's so nice to dream in the armchair

is the armchair not in the house, in the warm
but in the snow?
Because the Spring is
about to come.
* * *
Body diapered
opened towards...

of whimsical form
were showered down
diapered by word
corroded the fetter

In the lonely night
the first verses
have fallen.

* * *

There was something
Seems to be past
street lamps
Light disappeared in the flowing hair
In was heard in the room - poetry

It happened in spring
(or it merely seemed so)
at the end of the 20th century
in one of the many capitals
Poems wandered in a room
Walls obediently contemplated
Walls of cheap hotels
accustomed to love

The room is a cinema
we're in the audience
they're on the screen:
shades rejoined
diffused the light
It was at the beginning
Love has only beginnings...

They were
in this room
Not us.
TO FRIEND To you -- to one: the solitude is blessing and torment. To you -- to two: to one as to two, one is for two, but as two. To you -- being silent, sitting, looking. What a patience to watch silently sitting and jealous, endowing with jealousy like a father observing his sun fondling his child.
* * * word undiscovered word as milk boils curdles with banality
* * * young lady in the store young lady do you have that? you know every month but you know I don't it's gone somewhere there is nothing to pour from me neither waste nor poetry... and your lips are weather-beaten because you're frivolous or because emotional? rather emotional aren't you? you've got such peculiar nails I haven't seen them but I know peculiar they've been dulled because of hitting the keys because in your childhood you were forbidden to bite and your eyes young lady but aren't they to see also they are a gracious shell reflecting the crowds going through the check-out and I'm only a particle only a transparent shred imperceptible on the indifferent surface of your eyes how silly to create from a speck a beautiful castle but our universe it sprang out of a miserable trifle too simply the night was too windy the wind with a strange melody has whispered to somebody and somebody liked it madly the madman has thrown open a window and no word a happy song -- monotonous and elated sound -- flown into the mute space our essence was born that way and following our essence I'm telling you young lady look at me
* * * one strives for water anticipating the source but even there born on the land one seeks out the bottom
* * * Whether the lonely wolf, or merely naughty child Your heart, like a garbage can Covered by silver Or quicksilver Trickling down the edges. One thinks: What splendid decor! One thinks... The streets of nerves: Pipes carrying hysteria. The steps: millions of feet, Ankles in socks. The waste of disposed words, Rumpled expressions. Melancholy creeps in Even in the breathing wind. The wind scrapes the pipes (Sincerely, but untalented). The wind brakes into slits (The wind without slits is mute). The garbage can stands on the corner, The garbage can full of cigarette butts: Passers-by spit at, Throw away -- away... The butt doesn't die out immediately, Smouldering (the garbage can is warm) And torments the died out around it: Fire torments in itself. The wind in a burst of rectitude -- Idiocy of sincere words -- Has touched, snuggled -- swept out A spark, in saliva pressed... Whether the lonely wolf, or merely naughty child Your heart is like a garbage can, Cool sleeping garbage can, Spit at by the melancholy.
* * * she approached him in the park glanced he silently followed her steps boulevard traffic light at the entrance in the vestibule she didn't give in just to split the silence a word is meaningless in pleats of sheet spotted by omission points
* * * People are looking for cages. Look: everybody is searching. And you're taking your part in the chaos of Brownian movement. Then, with collateral stream you're getting biased. When you're back: all of them are copulated, meaning: the cage has been found. The sky above city is gray. The city is gray itself. Apparently, numerous cages create monotonous shadow: sublimation of gray into gray (what else). And the first drop, condensing in it's phase, falls down. It starts raining. But you were in county where sun is - to spite and in spite of, but - shining. And finally came back, and understood: you're late. It seems to be quite useless, your spontaneous bias. Or may be you have to avoid to take part in the movement of things?
PROPHET 1. Sometimes writing terrifies when you feel that Future freezes awaiting on your pen point; freezes thinking. 2. And when you realize that it is waiting for your decision, you'd rather hide diffuse yourself to avoid demolition. 3. And if the fingers, right now, tramble in the parting mode it's likely to come soon
* * * My brain is crystal-clear as little girl who reads by candle-light the old stories about love. Her hand -- yet unaware in searching -- unconsciously is reaching for the subtle fuzz-rimmed cleavage. You know, little girl, about an instant down there that includes all worlds and knowledge. However, when you'll get it through you could reveal but sorrow and grief which ultimately are the sacrament of body, and you'll start to seek your childhood, but never find. Just don't! And thus my brain is weaving sophisticated web: it mills about but cannot (or doesn't want?!) approach that mirror edge.
TREE ATTEMPS TO SUISIDE 1. came from the party got his tails off and sho- o- k his cocktail 2. came with a white face shut the office door and sho- o- n were too tight 3. sits at home watches TV eats soup soup soup puts his spoon and shoots himself
* * * Here is a lack of tender caresses: A smile tends to compress the plane of lips, And body celebrates the separation's moment With complex gestures of the hands and hips -- Eyes into eyes -- the love because of mercy. The lover is a habit, dear friend.
* * * You have come into my night. A black eyebrow's cleft Has scratched an opened doorway. Your wandering gaze the reflection has found In a refined collection of days Weaving a web around your eyes: One is kind, the other one is compassionate: Black pearls and coddled by blood fusion Of weariness and thawing delight. You have smiled: plenty of unbeknownst desires -- Subtle as the contour of lips -- Soared up into the Heaven spilling sadness, Through cold tears of parting With a body-stone on the planks of a habit-love, With a vigilant anguish of duty. My exciting caresses have made the waves Of happiness flow over the warm silk. You were coming at night. The Milky Way at the doorway Congealed with secret footprints. And when its shape became paler You were returning to a bosom of fetters.

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