Nikolay Zinoviev from the new book. The great Russian poet Nikolai Zinoviev as a bombard and happiness
Nikolay Alexandrovich Zinoviev was born in Kuban, in the village of Korenovskaya (now Korenovsk) in 1960. Parents: Mother, Lidia Aleksandrovna Zinoviev - Teacher primary classes, Father, Alexander Dmitrievich - a worker. N. Zinoviev studied in vocational school, machine-tool technical school, on Philfak Kuban State University.Replaced several working specialties. He worked as a loader, concrete driver, a welder. In 1987 his first book of poems was released. Author of nine poetic collections published in Moscow and Kuban. Member of the Russian Writers Union since 1993. The winner of the International Competition "Poetry of the Third Millennium", the International Poetry Competition "Golden Pen", winner of the Prize of the Administration of the Krasnodar Territory in the field of culture and art, a large literary premium of Russia. Poems were published in the magazines "Our Contemporary", "Allrussian Cathedral", "Don", "Moscow", "Roman-Journal of the XXI Century", "Native Kuban", "Volga-XXI Century", "Cossacks", "Siberia", "Rural New", "Rift" and others, as well as in the newspapers "Tomorrow", "Day of Literature", "Russian Writer", "Literary Gazeta", " Literary Russia"And others. Married, Grow the Son and Daughter.
* * *
In the steppes covered with dust breno
Sat and cried man.
And the Creator of the Universe passed by.
Having stopped, he's up to:
"I am a friend humiliated and poor,
I'm a poor shore,
I know a lot of words cherished.
I am your God. I can do everything.
I feel the kind of your sad,
What kind of need you close? "
And the man said: "I am Russian",
And God cried with him.
Gypsy
Parenyuk, but not a kitty!
Do not sit like an idol.
For a healthy lifestyle
Pull the whole glass.
Well, Dasha, come out the parade,
All the facade will show!
Show Kremlin Gadam,
What is alive in Russia life.
Explain to them, a hamke-sump,
What the people are not a bunch of phones.
Show language people
You can only from the loop.
* * *
How to borrow abroad
And with happiness, howls,
That we kneel.
And we kneel -
Pray before the battle.
* * *
I look at the stog, on the swamp,
On the Kurgan at the river, on the rod.
And stronger than the great-grandfather and grandfather,
I love my small homeland...
Because big no longer.
* * *
Again we are looking to blame.
And I scream with the crowd: "In hell of them!
Quarter on the wheel! "
But God sees: we are all okay;
And in what is growing death in Russia,
We are to blame.
Everything.
RUSSIA
Under the shouts of the shaggy latch
Strangers and their own Juda
You barefoot in your shirt
In the place of the frontal lead.
And senior son decree reads
And the middle son of the ax takes
Only the younger son rher-roar
And does not understand anything ...
Rus Troika
Sani Fast, horses bricks -
Dimmed in the manems of their wind.
But, alas, to the restaurant rack
The rimmer is sophored in the morning.
He sat the honor of honor -
Released in sticky darkness:
Troika here and Rus on the spot
Yes, fake, not those.
He did not notice the substitution,
I did not hear the laughter,
And went here for change,
Rus was let down from the hammer.
What to seek reasons now?
What to look for traces of trouble?
Little, or damns:
Vodka, stupidity, laziness, Jews.
VISION
Soldier descends from the hill
With the family meeting ahead.
Medal "For Taking New York"
I see on his chest.
I see: his daughter his tank
Two geese drives to the river
Where from the Tower of NATO Tank
Son Fedka catches Caras.
* * *
"There are women in Russian selets ..."
ON THE. Nekrasov
The wind with a waste winds again.
The village is at the stream.
Walked around the village with a garbage
Chernobyl, Syvuha, Chechnya.
Widow tears cooled in pickles,
But in the outstands are full of drafts.
There are women in Russian selets,
But there is no man already.
* * *
I do not understand what is happening.
In the name of poor ideas
The lies triumph, the fornication torments:
Let's wave as they say?
But how can I be baptized
Hand that smeared on people? ...
VICTORY
There was a day victory explosion of happiness,
There is even a pain of losses in it.
Joyful and often
Human hearts. And now?
Go for years, and with them troubles -
How from the suma broken.
The closer to the striking we.
* * *
One day after drunk
I wake up, Ser and Hmur.
You look at the window: Yankees
For breakfast they catch chickens.
Self-alone gustrain laughter
Brush silence.
And drag on fun
In the shed your wife.
Creek and feathers take off
Potion dawn.
And you have a hangover
There is no strength.
MOTHER
Where through the fire chad
The sun overnight in the gorge fell
Son died ... To donate grandchildren,
Mother pretty pretended for a while.
* * *
Sun is up. As it should,
Dove the skies.
Whiten Brigade
Mate climbs on the forest.
And the foreman, Sunyvilka,
Flesh sickly prodigal gon,
Golongo girl
Drags into a wagon car.
The stiffness looks and angry,
And from envy languish, -
Tar "Prima" on the lip ...
And in the kittel resin smokes ...
Look, Lord, what's going on here!
This is building the temple to you.
In the temple
You ask the God of peace
And hot prayer
You are baptized left Hero.,
Pulling in her the landing takes.
And with an angelic face serious
The wrong cross is molding
Sigh. Under the city of Grozny
Dandy your hand is.
It remained not in granite,
Not in bronze, but just rotted ...
Stand, and your guardian angel
Stands behind his back. Without wing.
Among the huge flow of books, it is very difficult to find the "present". Or you need to have a congenital sense of words, or near should be an experienced, who knows a teacher who would unobtrusively turned your interest in the right direction. What brightly shines and painted in all the colors of the metaphor, is almost always a fake, and not real poetry. Solovyooth should not be painted under the parrot, the amazing song of a little gray singer puts everything in its place.
Vital I. creative biography Nikolai Zinoviev is once again confirmed that the poets in Russia at all times awaited. According to his people close to him, his poems were noticed and published in the early 80s, and wide fame comes only now, after almost a quarter of a century, when there are already several collections, and the selections of poems appeared in thick central magazines.
It is clear that he was born in a poet, but showed himself as a poet in full voice when the thunderstorm clouds descended over his big and small birthplace. N. Zinoviev verses are not only a spiritual biography of the poet, but at the same time the true history of Russia of the end of the XX - early XXI century transmitted through thoughts and feelings ordinary people, among which he grown and he himself.
Praded Poet for Mother - Kondrat Sergeevich Sabol - Cossack, rightly served the king, had the St. George Cross IV degree for outstanding courage and courage. In 1941, he was taken to the NKVD as an enemy of the people, and after (already posthumously) rehabilitated. Mother's great-grandmother is a large Cossack, a believer, kind. After holding a husband to the camps, and three sons on the protection of the Motherland, she with her three daughters helped all the farmers to survive in a military straightener. Grandfather for Mother - Cossack, to the Great Patriotic War worked in Kolkhoz Kombinerom. With the war, he did not return, died in the Crimea, replacing the deceased commander in battle.
Praded on his father was Kucher at Baryni, and the great-grandmother - the maid. Grandpa in Father (Native Kursk) - Builder. Dame Dmitry died in 1941, leaving the "barn book" of poems in the editorial office of a local newspaper. But after his death (war already began) this book was lost, and no one now knows that it was for poems. Father - Alexander Dmitrievich Zinoviev - after serving in the army returned home to Korenovsk and 46 years old worked by the builder. He married a teacher of primary classes Lydia Alexandrovna Sable, she is now 72 years old.
Nikolay Alexandrovich Zinoviev was born in the village of the Koren Krasnodar Territory on Palm Sunday, April 10, 1960. Pick up his home from the hospital in the bright Sunday of Christ. The baby was born strong, with dense black hair and hiding eyelashes.
After school, the poet finished vocational school, where he received a specialty welder. Then he studied at the machine-planning technical school and in absentia - in the Krasnodar University on Litfak. He worked as a loader, electric welder, concrete at a construction site. Writing began in 20 years. He wrote for himself, without sending anywhere. Later, the mother persuaded to send poems into the district newspaper, they did not believe there, they said: "Somewhere hesitates." But still decided to check, giving him the topic. He is there in the editorial office, wrote poems. And a little later came from Krasnodar the head. Department of Poetry V.P. There are not possible, found where N. Zinoviev lives, took poems, and since then they began to appear in the regional newspaper.
For the poem "My grandfather" N. Zinoviev was awarded the first of his premium. After recognizing it in the region and our "district" began to print his poems often. The first small book "I am going on the ground" was published in 1987 by the Krasnodar Publishing.
His poems read, printed, sent each other, they came for them, they gathered money and published small books. The publication included poems chosen by the editors themselves. And so these verses went around the country, reached Moscow. Soon he received a big literary award. Then became the laureate of the International Competition "Poetry of the Third Millennium", the competition "Golden Feather", Deligor Prize.
Nikolay Alexandrovich is married, has a daughter and son. Currently lives in the city of Korenovsk.
In 2005, V.G. Rasputin invited N. Zinoviev to Irkutsk at the "Lights of Russia" festival and, representing the poet, said: "In verses, Nikolai Zinoviev speaks Russia herself".
The happiness of Russia, its salvation is that at all times when she was difficult, somewhere in her distant outback were born talented people who are helpful or bright, sowing a faith in the souls. Nikolay Zinoviev from those people for whom the meaning of life is primarily to be Russia, so that it becomes stronger and cleaner, so that it does not interrupt the connection of times, did not lose what was proud of in the past. And this meaning he managed to express in his verses, which did not confuse with anyone.
†††
Oh, how I fell a lot,
Walking on life trail!
As a mother, always to the detriment of oneself,
Russia rose me.
Exchanged and weakened
My Russia, my mother.
Now I have no other case -
Her pick it up.
†††
You can only believe in Russia.
F.I. Tyutchev
Not a day, not a month and no year -
You should always believe in Russia.
And as for adversity,
They will go like dogs, obedient.
They run away in the same way,
Abscribed by the Beach Lord.
†††
I do not understand what is happening.
In the name of poor ideas
The lies triumph, the fornication torments ...
Let's wave as they say?
But how can I be baptized
Hand waving for people? ..
†††
Familiar has a sick daughter.
Disabled, you understand since childhood.
And no one can help her.
There is no such means in the world.
I understand that I do not see
I understand, I understand the mind ...
But Nemethte under the left shoulder,
When I look at her ...
†††
For the map of the former union
With a collapse of the breast
Standing. I'm not crying. I do not pray.
And just there is no strength to leave.
I stroke the mountain, ironing the river,
Concerning the fingers of the seas.
As if closing the eyelids
Unhappy Motherland My ...
VISION
Soldier descends from the hill
With the family meeting ahead.
Medal "For Taking New York"
I see on his chest.
I see his daughter his tank
Two geese drives to the river
Where from the tower of NATO tank
Son Fedka catches Caras.
†††
Dials cheaply
Life, and nothing to go.
Lose their depth -
How to go a child.
I UNDERSTAND
I understand - not a fool, -
To fingers compressed in a fist,
Dismiss
Need strength, and decrease,
But most - patience.
†††
So replaced epoch epoch,
What about this sadness?
Before secretly we believed in God,
Today I secretly do not believe in it.
Friends
Let we do not fit into the prophets
But, so that the chames are not so chames,
Friends let's call
As temples ...
In kindergarten
Over the flowerumba butterfly flute,
And the sky is pouring blue.
In the shadow of the sandbox play
Soldiers of the third world ...
†††
I believe Russia will turn
To create a good thing,
But before this will begin,
What I'm afraid to speak.
†††
There are days of special strength,
When in the flow of everything
In addition to the "Lord, Homes!"
There is nothing in thoughts anything.
WEALTH
Garden to the river. In Hat.
Table with the Bible. Bench.
Noon ... Book of Genesis ...
Doesn't it be enough?
†††
When the soul boils from anger
Brother is not good
You also score nails
In the wrists of the White Christ.
Depreciation
One of her novels writes,
The other with the tribune shouts about her,
And only the one who breathes it,
While silent ...
†††
How to borrow abroad
And with happiness, howls,
That we kneel.
And we kneel
Pray before the fight ...
†††
The soul did not bear the target,
But God is omnibin
MiG will give her peace -
And she is for longer and not necessary.
†††
Horrible era!
For the temple we build a temple,
We believe that we believe in God,
But he does not believe us.
Family TRADITION
Favorite rescue shower for
Mantis gladly glad
Once a year, the Church of Hoorel Praded ...
On the knees…
In the next county.
CROSS
And I understood on the slope of the day,
When the sunset is a river scarlet:
I'm not my cross, and he is me
Burns in life with unprecedented.
WIDOW
Outside the window and in her chest - sizzle.
Ninety-two years widow.
God told her: "Live and for her husband,
That died at thirty years in war. "
IN THE HOSPITAL
This with the smell of the vile chamber
And on windows lattice strokes -
Not high too much fee
For unnecessary people poems?
†††
Sum, prison, sum, prison.
Where are you, the people of Will?
Worn grief from the mind
Saferen mind from grief.
REQUIEM
Words of sympathetic lies.
Do not get out of the rut
Leading to hell when other people's
Stand around. Some strangers.
Aliens all. Even your own.
RUSSIAN FIELD
I'm under the sky your dull
Understood this not yesterday:
So that you stay Russian
Kulikov become time.
Otherwise you snorched,
Still a terrible trouble -
You will become mongrel grief
Already to a terrible court.
It will be summer nights
Golden dream of rye.
Wooden crosses
Before the top tighten ...
†††
Long the world rumor crawls
In the minds, born not in poor:
Russia will soon fall.
Do not having fun in advance!
Kohl falls - presses many.
Or maybe they are all.
What, besides the wet trail,
Then will remain from the world?
Pray better, gentlemen,
For our Russia, and then - trouble.
So the Lira prophesies me.
†††
Grandfather remained in war
And I left the country.
And now I look with wine,
What do you do with my country.
NOT RUNNESS PRESENTS -
Human shower.
And I forgiveness
Will, there is no?
I dont know.
All people are knocked into flocks,
Who opposes those in herd.
Something to do, you need to do!
I tormented my soul
On the other - do not jerk.
Above the country was able to ...
Do not forgive
Neither grandfather
Neither God.
†††
We have on the farm, in Europe,
So far nothing shakes nor battles.
Only a cat hides in dill,
Touching Sparrow.
And life, and death by walking quiet
Go - pah-pah, do not smooth in order.
And grandfather's grandfather with a smile wild
The coffin is sticking to herself.
And he says that there is no garbage
No one drinks everything in the family -
And that baptized chamber
Then, as a ps, lie in the ground.
Coat of arms of Russia
I do not cry with people, not Baba.
But, double-headed, is not too weak
Do you hold the country's rest in the paws?
Do you feel the gaze of Satan?
You are won your claws deeper
Forgetful fatigue.
If we have a grip weaken, then immediately
Even even what remains.
†††
Flying Machorca, on Zavalinka
Gray as the Lun Star sits.
I'm in front of him like a little boy,
He does not look at me.
And suddenly looked:
"What about sour muzzle?" -
"I wanted you like a long time ..."
But he interrupted: "Russia is dead
Live to see is not given. "
UNITY
I go on the edge of life,
Bad idea chasing.
Shatter pulse is frazzled,
How drunk, me.
I'm afraid to fall into the abyss,
After all, I am completely without wings.
Put with fear song?
But everyone rebured.
I go on the edge of life,
Not stupid and not smart.
Not delicate pulse is fray
And my hour is not even.
†††
Clouds floated low and sulfur,
And I was seeing given
How demons grain and spit
Sold, burning grain.
I watched and stood, but unstable,
When the demon I winked me:
"Perestroika goes, restructuring," -
And in the fire Kochergoy moved.
And the post is hired poet,
By the fact that the gift of the prophet Rodney:
Perestroika will end this
With the onset of the vessel.
†††
We haven't had fun in Divo,
Joy in every lived town.
And for the holidays you went out
In the Orenburg Punkefather.
But the disadvantage of strange
And the trouble was raised with might and main.
And in a chore from black crepe
You are unknown to you.
†††
So there, under the firm eternal,
Where lay on the rocks of the ice
Now grandmother old river
Hinges live among the marshes
And at the bottom of the sea
Loe in verakhans cosmodrome ...
Only a soul - all the same field
After the battle of evil with good.
Old widow
And in the morning in the eyes dark.
On the hut roof completely disappeared.
And remember scary like a long time ago
The soul of the soul burned.
But on the face of the life of that
Light remained. He is extinct
As a saint poverty
On a bowl with a knocked edge ...
In beer
1.
"What do you know, sterling, about attacks?
You, I see, not to drink not weak.
We rushed with a grenade on tanks,
You rush only to women.
What do you know about the actions?
And I will kill the fascist butt?
What do you know?
And in fact, who you are
What is on equal with me here? .. "
Silently drank vodka a sump guy,
I hid a look that was Hmur and heavily.
From behind the table stood up and on a pair
Skipridge prostheses left.
2.
Drives up on the stroller
And unshaven, and gray.
I pour "under the string."
I do not mind. He is a hero.
He left his feet in Chechnya
And his halfway.
And the guys were gods,
Remembers everyone to one.
Drinking, wrinkles: "Piva".
Drinks yet. Then shouts:
"For hell to me this fame,
Hear? " Motherland is silent.
In the temple
You ask the God of peace
And hot prayer
You are baptized with your left hand,
Pulling in her the landing takes.
And with an angelic face serious
The wrong cross is molding
Sigh. Under the city of Grozny
Dandy your hand is.
It remained not in granite,
Not in bronze, but just rotted ...
Stand, and your guardian angel
Stands behind his back. Without wing.
†††
How much I remember, he is:
Rare beard
Dirty, sulfur, dry.
Tripping.
Dough Armenian.
Children's smile.
- Hello, Vanya-fool.
How are you?
- Not chib.
- Are you mocking, beat?
What is Vali?
- Painfully serve a lot ...
As before the war.
†††
You do not make yourself idol,
Don't worship fate
So why is all the evil of the world
Sometimes you feel in yourself?
Think, who, Manya temptation
"With evil to finish the world,"
Leads you handproof
To the walkways rotted and curves?
And put an end to all troubles
Call cold water…
Plush! And that's it. About it
No need more. Never.
SLEEP
I saw a dream - everything else:
Huge golden tavern
Razing, chewed not spread
And our Orthodoxy with you.
Taurus was from the desert,
Where did the whole trouble come from.
And all shrines disappeared
In a huge mouth forever:
Crosses, Horugwi and icons,
Which were hundreds of years ...
Although it's a dream, but are you calm?
There is no rest in me.
Great
POEM
War is the third world
It has long been walking on the planet.
And, on the victory, said,
Who sleeping will wake them up?
What nonsense is carrying
About world domination! People!
After all, there will be no winners
The result will be a terrible court.
A little early the end of the world
Shows everyone that is dark.
Although someone would have won the words of the poet
And the conclusion was correct did, but
Again to victory version
Shouting rather that these.
The third world walks
On the dying planet,
Where, horror is not conscious
More flowers and children grow.
Those who are unconscious
Of course it is punished -
Watch how much today
People living without conscious
What Russians are they.
No Horst russian poet,
How to see the picture of this.
My soul, and spirit, and verse
They want to return them to the consciousness.
†††
Where are our and power, and wealth?
I know the answer to the question -
Where there is no spiritual fraternity
Default reigns and chaos.
"We yourself are to blame!" -
Shouting is not the people - the crowd,
Where every eyes blinks
Through the hole in his shell.
About yourself in the third face
Let him deceive and offended
But know, the godless world and the creepy century,
Hates sins immensely
Only a Russian multi-chart.
I will not talk about too much
Enough one completely stroke:
After all, Russian is bitterly before God
Even before committing sin.
HUMAN RIGHTS
What are the rights?
Only right and strength
About him whisper grass
On your own grave.
Sad these words
Everywhere the wind was broadcast:
"What are the rights?"
Only right and strength.
In Russia…
Lermontov
Pyatigorsk lights.
Years like clouds.
How many in their life? A handful?
Or is it a century?
Oh, how everyone is tired!
It is tightened and strict.
To the last duel
A few more lines.
He is cunning like a demon
And the sadness, like God,
Earth and sky
It does not fit a sigh.
Branch wind pegs
Empty, Gulko in the chest.
He sits down and writes.
Death is already behind.
Cranes
Come out soon
to take a look at the high!
N.Rubtsov
Which year over our edge
Do not fly cranes.
And we live and die
In the concerns of petty, in dust.
In their hearts, we do not wear lights,
We live thoughtless grass.
I welcome a neighbor
Nice casual head.
Do not give poor bread,
And with an irritant drive away.
Christ, all seeing from the sky,
How does the longing not exhaust?
In prayer hands do not extend
At the sight of morning dawn.
And therefore over our edge
Do not fly cranes ...
PRAYER
Please do not glory, not jellies,
I ask you, grieving for my brother,
Save my country from those
Who painted you once.
Christ, they are your enemies!
They are slaves of the Caltz,
You know yourself. You help,
Pretty yours only words ...
†††
Being famous ugly.
B. Pasternak
Being famous scary very,
Having steel nerves:
After all, the signs, by the way,
The battle is killed first.
It has a meter
It's special interest.
He is amazed Ile victory
See can only from heaven.
†††
I write poems your i
Became Russophile Russophobe.
I know it is very difficult
But, if in principle it is possible
Ready to write i day and night
With the fact that the country is to help.
I am ready to challenge
So that only the homeland will save.
About this, actually, and speech.
†††
Write about joy about life -
So I imagined the poet's goet,
But in the dying depth
Could it?
And I write on the angry of the day,
God will give, I will write to continue.
After all, this very evil day
Pierced millennia.
†††
Lyric I, Liri, in essence:
I would write about the rains,
About the dawn on the lake floor
On the mysterious cries of owls.
Does not give me to the lyrics to fall
This black, slippery power,
Which is so similar to the leech of the marsh,
Sucked to the neck of the People
And drove blood to bunting ...
... Lirik I, lyrics in essence.
†††
Why is not clearly visible,
Who was from the century?
What is I taped, like a wolf,
Human rights?
What is the third Rome crawt?
Why doesn't the light shine?
What is the wonder?
Do anyone answer?
No answer. Some silent
Comprehensive this world is unable.
And those who could comprehend, lie
For a long time in my graves.
Enemies of Russia
Oh, how you look kidding!
Fools you need to assume.
You are us who is looking for meetings with God,
Decided death to scare?!
About this our poet for a long time
Said contemptuously and scoop:
All this would be funny
Whenever it was so ... stupid!
†††
Writing about the stars - spend days.
And how many of them remained, days?
I am writing about people, because they
Much closer and relatives.
Yes, we all, in general, good,
There are advantages and in the coolness,
But come across such
What is better if I wrote about the stars.
And I'm not from that?
All-all, finishing the verse.
†††
Penetrating spiritual bridge
In depths hidden from eyes
The picture seems such
To me, as a poet, in the hundredth time:
The path to paradise all overgrown,
Although believe, at least do not believe.
In hell, the road is evil,
In the asphalt dressed devils.
Going on it is now easy,
Slip, like on parquet.
And the paradise is now so far away
As if it was not.
Crows
Black flock flies,
The sky is grunting.
Tree will be sought - simple
Bereza will become like a widow
Il Mother that signed son
Yesterday is terrible: without tears ...
And in Russia such a sap!
And in Russia these birches!
VICTORY DAY
Scroll and in verses, and in the plays,
He, as a father to his sons,
Already half a century on prostheses,
That neither spring comes to us.
He is terrible and more beautiful
All celebrated Godin.
One such a holiday in Russia.
And thank God that one.
ABOUT IT
I do not want to write about it,
I scream I muse: "Distop!"
But the victim requires the poet
Not Apollo, but our life.
After all, we sleep all, brothers,
Not slander is not glut.
The last chance for mind to take us,
Until it comes completely mind.
Oh, the heart is a poor poet
And the Spirit, which has lost peace!
I did not want to write about it,
But God drove my hand.
Or maybe you solder us?
But this is another story.
†††
I scratched in Russian the back
And thoughtfully swell glad
And went on glass from bottles
All that have time to drink in a century.
I cursed myself all the way
And I'm no longer drinking ...
And such a road is to God.
Why shouldn't she be?
†††
Wherever you look - grief,
Some smell in the chest.
Oh Lord, no docome
Dockens, Lord?!
Like daws with bells
Words flies with mouth.
Who is forever dissatisfied
Sobody, he is not empty.
So the soul is fucked -
Well, known, not in paradise,
Not in vain from the glass
Deepat so gray.
Hello in a singe chore -
Find him like ...
Oh Lord, no docome
Dockens, Lord?!
†††
It's not a pity to her beggar poor.
N.A.Nekrasov
I feel miserable and poor
And the one who is cheaper blamed
With the need drowned his days;
There are no longer thousands
And they are all Russians.
†††
Breakdown drunk in the alley,
Pleeping a hoarse cry with a mat.
Putting to dirty plaster,
Old man sleeps at the bus stop.
Laugh drunk maiden,
Sitting to pass through Mercedes, -
Her cast buttocks
For the thread enlisters the demon.
On the wasteland from the beginning of May
There is a construction of prison.
I call all this life
Are we not mistaken?
THIRST
Great thirst worked
He sold an old accordion -
His last fourth
And he drank two bottles in a row.
Came home to the smoke, in the insole,
Sat on a wretched bed;
Great thirst worked
I forgot that I dug my accordion.
And the imaginary belts threw
And imaginary fur spread
And fingers lost
And forgot everyone, and forgot everything.
One melody just remembered
And it filled the room.
At least the emptiness hand met,
Music sounded, sounded.
And with horror, the wife looked
At such an unprecedented business.
†††
Somehow in the morning at the restaurant
(And in my pocket a penny)
With the ubiquitous prince of the world
Gloomy met left-handed.
Hug a prince Levshchu by the shoulders:
"Friend! Go? For everything I pay! "
Sill fleece easier
How to answer: "I do not want."
And they went ... and came out
On the eyebrows - in all its glory.
It was Leftchea punished over:
He became right, like everyone else.
†††
Tuchi Sizby hung.
Dead of Russia. Night. Railway station.
"You see, no life," -
The man man said a peasant.
Rolled on the buffet
This phrase. Began to drink.
"Pull up! Where there is no life,
Where to get there? "
†††
He is incidental in vices
Not reduced to words
But the soul is still not a choseman,
Because the mother is alive.
There is someone else to pray
For him through the haze of the tears.
Long it will last?
Then another question.
†††
The first compounds in the hair.
Thin stockings in such a stub.
Eyebrows like threads.
And in the eyes -
Nothing like a soul.
And stands, rushes grief,
"Bitch Privinal", "Katyukha",
"Katka-Polovakana", "Katka-whore".
Katya ... my classmate is ...
†††
Not because suddenly got drunk
But again I do not know
Who is bitterly shouted so
At the entrance to my hut?
Yes, it's homeland! From dust
Gray, in the scape and the kenny ...
Yes, if we loved her,
Could she be like this?!
SCENERY
From the sky, snow flies, stew,
On the road, at homeless,
That so sweet sleeps in Kuvette,
Forgetting about everything in the world.
Snow is spinning, snow flies,
On the face of the homeless does not melt ...
†††
It's time spring sailed
Flowers of the darling of the violet.
Baghich Troya Rodila
In a cardboard house on a landfill.
Babies want to be empty
And the flab breasts fall.
Through generic hot smoke
Mother says: "Let them disappear ..."
Russia! Mother of all people!
Who so dreamed of crucifying you?!
... in paradise at Dmitry Donskoy
The hand fell on the handle.
†††
Oh, these beggar pensions
Old women and stray old men.
They seek them seek songs
Stretchless showwalks.
What a pious robbery!
That neither the official, then the plow.
Are you Russian, government?
Me doubts take me.
WITHIN Mercy
You help us, Mother of God,
Find your way as a matter of indention.
And those who put our way to us,
You also do not forget about them:
For their unkind zeal
Knock us off the way
Come up with something myself
Within mercy.
†††
And I saw how you beat the homeless
For ring sausages. Beyond for a long time.
Blill with him, slowly,
With a merciless smile -
Like a wolf.
He tried to bite her shoes
Under the counter wanted to roll.
And no one died to stand up
Only I decided to write ...
†††
Oh, the days of the lucavia! Evil Summer!
Lie and betrayal lady!
Optees in a pistol blow
Take a look, the close to the eyes.
There is even a little poet here,
Here only God must be
To people for all for it
Do not hate, but love.
RETURN Prodigal Son.
From longing or from laziness
Not. Finally
Returned. On knees
Father got up before his son.
He cried, trembled shoulders,
Growing ground squeezed in a handhide:
"Son, forgive me, sorry
I'm not saving my mother to the meeting ... "
Old picture
Melancholy ... Drawberry ... Handra ...
Grimacey sour in the morning.
We are all accustomed to badly,
So sweet to us in the souls
What if someone suddenly cry:
"I feel good!" - He will be killed.
Kill cold, evil word,
Twist your finger at the temple
And calm down. And again:
Handra ... Drawberry ... longing ...
Yes, an unsightly picture -
Century does not erase this, -
So the river grows tina,
So a rickety rubbing a pond.
NEWS
In the world, it has long been unclean,
Ploy in its nutrola:
Evil reapney, plowly,
And good ... and where is good?
And love all came out
Sex came love to shift.
Stayed everywhere vice,
Looky beats his forehead about the wall.
Lust dons, joking,
And debauchery spits on the sky.
Sells yourself child
For a piece of rotten bread.
Perverted someone nonsense
Educated form.
The term came the whole white light
Call another name.
If there is no strength to live
If the heart is not in place,
If you are still a poet
Shudder from this news.
†††
Who shoots there on the street?
And then hanging on the fence,
Neighbor rag knocks
The so-called "carpet".
It would be thrown into a landfill,
But bitch-poverty does not give
And, highly raised stick,
The hostess hits it and beats.
With some kind of hussar
Rocks rag all stronger! ..
Probably poor, it is miserable to her
What drives accounts with the state.
†††
I remember everyone by name,
Who taught us that work is a reward.
Forget, cute, do not need ...
Labor - punishing God's us.
How can my spirit be high,
When to sweat, up to Izmor
I'm a piece of beef
The palace is luxurious building a wage?
After all, I indulge in him
After all, I am from them, coming out, samples ...
About the age! Neither the heart nor the mind
Neither the Spirit does not find supports.
SMALL
APOCALYPSE
Some in the air troubles
Thickens the unquestion of darkness.
As if I should someone
That's just what and to whom?
As if cut off the wings
Soul. They began to interfere.
Already all the windows opened,
But still nothing to breathe ...
†††
In the dreams of uncomplying nomads,
I wear out like a coat.
I did not know what I want.
And what I did, everything is not that.
And the right nephew: "Late, uncle,
You started to read the Bible. "
... Let, looking at my fall,
Although he learns to fly.
CRAZY
How good in the garden hospital
Both us and birds, and flowers!
I feel perfectly.
How good i'm not there
Where people do not have enough sun,
Where because of the torn chervonets
Damn the knife and throw in ditch,
Where the shadows don't have a smile with meek
Where evil and lies, where the day is hell! ..
No wonder the lattice is observed
The entire length of our quiet garden.
Love land
She loves everyone without parsing,
That right above it is given.
Holy elder or thief
She will bring her - she doesn't care.
From herbs and snow her dress
And it is not angry by one,
But who fell into her arms,
He himself becomes land.
And again free, again the bride
She, submissive and quiet,
And new ready place
For the groom.
My gardener
Lying well under any
The wave is quiet.
Life cow cheesey
It just seems. She is
In its deep essence
Quiet gentle chicks.
There is no bummer in it,
Take care of her, son.
†††
I do not understand where everything went?
You, if you know, tell me.
Where is the spirit of power and hearts courage?
Where is the kindness of the human soul?
Or from the birth of our souls
Did not visit the kindness?
Afraid to hear "yes"
I closes your ears in fear.
†††
Why the sunset is so red
Like a purchased in the blood?
Was criminal and terrible
Century, we are given for love.
Mount us forgetting God!
Rusted the axis soon
Because too much
Blood in the ground sheds.
Stop planet
Not by chance and not suddenly.
But I do not want to
Think people, underwear.
LOST SOUL
All my life I live with her,
Never became nerves:
And suddenly her "AU"
Isn't God hear the first?
One would be a freak
Such was - shivering on the skin,
But my people
With the soul lives the same.
And all our Molub
Let the demon in a circle
And hears only a pallet
God is our friend.
Under the root "Kalash"
Only the dark spirit will permeate.
Lost soul
That's the disappearance will be ...
Recognition
I am a victim of the Devil's era,
And paradise does not shine to me, alas.
But I write. I am writing about God
In the hope that you will be saved.
Recognition is Ile a call?
But yes will last your days!
And human knowledge
Unborn full-firmly.
And therefore I do not shake:
Perhaps with you and will be suited.
RETRO
Peasants puffed puffed,
And someone drank brandy in "Astoria",
But then we already pushed
Not yet in hell, but from history.
As now the past faded!
Now we are dragging right in the pecked.
†††
I have been stored with all
From a century of our backwardness,
Who ruins the root
Everything that people in us remained.
And even if you can not stop
This age game on miserably lyre,
Give God at least the mind to save
In the insane world.
†††
And in that evil around without measure,
And what's around without measure of darkness,
Only Malovers are guilty
And these are these - we!
To which we, in fact, are ready,
Since there is no strength to withstand the post?
Will us find a question of Christ
Surprised when he asks: "Who are you?"
And we, raise no dare eye,
I heard: "I don't know you."
And we will bite elbows,
And then ... I do not want to write.
†††
And this trouble is called the "market" -
Sad outcome of someone's wise clauses,
When chocolate cazable on shop windows
Sparkles tears in children's eyeballs.
And the mother is that the souls in their children do not
A jerk breaks it: "Castle!"
Life is a bitter salt of kids.
Only salt, without bread, meets their lives.
†††
Put, neighbor Vasily,
Vaguely my heart:
Is Russia? No Russia?
I do not understand.
Who are we on Arkan?
Laugh Demony behind his back.
Really we in a glass
Drowned with the country?
