ДУРНАЯ НАКЛОННОСТЬ

а давай я приеду тебя навестить?

когда-нибудь ты откроешь дверь и увидишь меня, сидящим на лестнице, с дурацким видом: "Элиза, бросься мне на шею"

у меня есть мальчик, он очень хороший, глубокий, всегда встречает меня с улыбкой

а меня все равно разрывает между /стокгольм-рига-минск/

твой дом - это запах, это башни из тысячи книг

а твой дом - это куриво и алко

а мой дом, где-то между вами, ребятки

и чтобы не умереть от радость и бьорк в наушниках, держите отмороженный нос, одна штука

Я:

если я проснусь, то увидимся в следующее воскресенье, а если нет, то через полгода.

Руслану по телефону

I heard tell of a king from a southern kingdom, who commanded his alchemists to concoct a perfume that would smell exactly like old books. The alchemists rejoiced: At last! A simpler task than distilling gold out of urine! They began to work day and night, destroying books and burning covers and crumbling pages. They achieved some good results, and almost discovered penicillin on the way. But one night, as in all legends, the king suffocated in his sleep and died. His beloved son, heir to the throne, immediately gave orders for a deep grave to be dug for his father in the heart of the desert, where he would be buried with all of his wives and his servants and his books and his camels. One of the alchemists had written the final formula for the perfume in the margins of a book that was also tossed into the grave. And other storytellers add that the sand, as it is wont to do for both great and small, covered it all.

All rights reserved by the author. Illustration © 2012 by David Polonsky. Translated by Jessica Cohen.

Alex Turner: There is always that one band that comes along when you are 14 or 15 years old that manages to hit you in just the right way and changes your whole perception of things. I don’t know what band is doing that for kids right now.

Stereogum: Maybe it’s you guys.

как бы мне доковылять до этой высшей математікі, ребяткі

сегодня я давала обещание не прикасаться к тебе, лежа на полу, решая планиметрию Сканави, читая Сэрца на далоні, моя посуду и грея руки о батарею. Но стоило тебе тихо войти позади меня, стоило мне обернуться, стоило тебе склониться надо мной и моим ноздям вдохнуть твой мятный запах, как…

Bereavement by Alex Epstein

Her parents reminisce: as a child, instead of using a bookmark, she would write in books with a marker: “I’m here.” “I’m here.” “I’m here.”

ты уж только посмотри на меня ласково, а уж мурашки по бедрам я тебе обещаю

і хачу падараваць яму песню

Скачать Twin Shadow - Forget.

I saw broken-necked crow with a beak
like a pliers that became, as I approached,

two pages from a magazine, torn in a few places
and stepped down into the snow,

the muddy underside of a boot
fingerprinted across the woman’s body,

which opened, it seemed, to any odd angle
of gaze—pornographic, shy—as I looked

down into it, the way, years later, I looked
down into you, and your face became a small pond

the cells of my face kept falling into, glittering
a moment on the surface, then gone. I didn’t know

that could happen, my face falling like snow
into more snow. That morning, my breath visible

above the magazine, I was years from the body’s
inlets, its aquatic folds, the tiny rippled scar

on your belly, like the place a beak might have
entered a lake, our bodies built to accommodate,

equally, suffering or love. No wonder we want
to be held, shored by at least a partial definition.

Once, when playfully you let me look
straight into your mouth—at the divoted teeth,

underside of tongue, the drop of skin at the back
and the waterfall of your throat—

that morning shivered back into me, how I stared
myself into the picture, trying to take the picture

up, in pieces, and assemble a woman
in my brain, how somehow I did know,

even then, that I would never not be falling,
not be letting go, how I lifted her wet

and crumpled body from the snow.

Steve Gehrke

за руки же меня хватал, угараздило же тебя

угараздело же меня так "разлюбиться"

еще никогда не было так хорошо, когда нас 20 человек все тянут стакана на водку и кричат "ура" во весь голос. потом ты уже пьяный, а я еще нет, потом ты выдыхаешь на меня сигаретный дым, а возмущенно кричу: "Артут, отъебись!" Потом твои колени и моя куртка, твои плечи и рюкзак. потом паломничество в соседний ларек и еще одна бутылка, потом пицца и ты провожаешь меня домой, потом рассказываешь о звездах и самостоятельной по астрономии. потом целуешь.

влюбись

The whole idea of it makes me feel
like I’m coming down with something,
something worse than any stomach ache
or the headaches I get from reading in bad light—
a kind of measles of the spirit,
a mumps of the psyche,
a disfiguring chicken pox of the soul.
You tell me it is too early to be looking back,
but that is because you have forgotten
the perfect simplicity of being one
and the beautiful complexity introduced by two.
But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit.
At four I was an Arabian wizard.
I could make myself invisible
by drinking a glass of milk a certain way.
At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince.

But now I am mostly at the window
watching the late afternoon light.
Back then it never fell so solemnly
against the side of my tree house,
and my bicycle never leaned against the garage
as it does today,
all the dark blue speed drained out of it.

This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself,
as I walk through the universe in my sneakers.
It is time to say good-bye to my imaginary friends,
time to turn the first big number.
It seems only yesterday I used to believe
there was nothing under my skin but light.
If you cut me I could shine.
But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,
I skin my knees. I bleed.

все не просто так, кажется