ДУРНАЯ НАКЛОННОСТЬ

— Ты этому в школе учился?

— Нет. Меня за это из школы выгнали.

Артур и Соня на дереве сидели. Целовались, целовались. На реку смотрели. Сначала любовь, потом под венец, потом Соня-мама, а Артур-отец.

наскучив сатирой Джойса
берешься за что-то эпическое
вроде поэмы Нойеса

но и тут тебя побеждает зевота

в барчике пусто
и думаешь:
хоть бы с коньяком
или водкой заглянул кто-то

и ехать в поезде, курить на станциях, говорить со старыми мужчинами интеллигентного вида, с ними еще раз курить, пить, потом плакать и кричать одному на вокзале твоего города.

gosh people take it so personally when you say that you’re not in the mood to talk to anyone. take me out somewhere so i may show you my distaste for people at the moment so you can stop being all pissy about it and just realize i don’t want to deal with people right now and that it’s not just you i don’t wanna talk to >:c

Если у вас под окном играет флейта, знайте - это Соня приветствует весну.

Doch ich fühl mich federleicht
Weil es sich fast immer lohnt
Und so erscheint das nichts so bleibt wie es ist
fast schon wie gewohnt

The ground is hardening again after the long rain
and I feel stable enough
to run, hard and fast, cold air burning my chest,

with the dog just ahead,
stolen roses in my hands.
They are candy-cane striped, disgustingly pink and heavy
on their woody stems.

I’ll put them in water, in a jelly jar,
place it on the countertop for you. Darling.

If I had nothing else to say, then this
could be enough. If I woke tomorrow, I mean,
and couldn’t speak.

My flushed cheeks, brilliant with the shock
of winter sun, my flashing black boots, their weeks-old mud
flaking off with each stride, my breath,

the joy, no rain —
would be enough.

Katie Cappello

Ты знаешь, что такое дювэ?
— Плед…
— Одеяло. Ну зачем таким как мы знать что такое дювэ? Это что — необходимо для выживания, как умение добывать пищу? Нет. Тогда кто же мы?
— Не знаю… потребители?
— Именно! Потребители. Мы — побочный продукт этого жизненного стиля. Война, голод — все это не интересует меня. А интересует меня знаменитости и скандалы, телевизор, где 500 каналов..Чье имя на бирке моих трусов?! Виагра…
— Марта Стюарт?
— Нафиг Марту! Марта полирует бронзу на Титанике, мир идет ко дну! — я говорю: к чёрту это всё это!Пора эволюционировать!

все образовалось наилучшим образом как-то

слезы и радостные вопли начинают подходить к моиму горлу, заковывать его в железные цепи и не давать мне продыхнуть, гладить меня по лицу и внутренним органам.

ты разговариваешь, провожаешь, смотришь, улыбаешься, дотрагиваешься, du mag MICH, правда меня? эту недалекую, слишком умную и вечно не в тему девочку среди твоих девушек? Соню такую.. "до свидания"

хорошо, When the abrasion of your unconcern,
saying you love, then roughly “I’m
in pain, I suffer, I’ve got
serotonin deficiency, I don’t let that
stop me, ”

Артур

according to greek mythology, humans were originally created with four arms, four legs and a head with two faces. fearing their power, zeus split them into two separate beings, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other halves.

The first gesture is despair
because the snowdrops
have fled and the cold
came back anyway. You
are far from your love
and you will be nothing
but the space between
the hand and what it is
accustomed to grasping.
The first gesture is cold
but the rain still comes
down and like the rain
you lean your head down
on someone’s shoulder
because it is too heavy for
you to carry by yourself.
Outside the boys are like
flowers and the flowers
are like boys because they
don’t give what they say.
All the evening flowers
are coffins bursting with
possibility. Why not pick
one, why not let your
sorrow sink into the dirt
where it will die? The first
gesture is the hope that it
will die before you will
or that you will learn to
read it like a book. Come
read, come to the flower
beds and the mowed-down
fields where the heads of
yellow soldiers burst in
the grass. If anyone ever
gave you something, that
gesture of fading beauty
was the first sign that
the price of generosity
is the flower that would
rather not be ripped from
its heart. Come read all
the flowers: they were
printed here just for you.
Come read your heart
which has shriveled
into a flower receding
before night. If the sun
ever will come back here
the first thing you’ll do is
reach right out to touch it.

Joseph Campana

I have seen inside myself and I know now what I am made of; it’s not the red blood and long threads of veins that spiral through these arms that reach for you, no, it’s not the tissue of tired muscles and worn out fingers from squeezing air where you hand should be. I have seen inside myself and I know now I am made of letters and those letters fall in love with others and they join together and coursing through me under this fragile skin is the product of their great love affair, the sentences they gave birth two and the long paragraphs that have become their family tree over the years that I have wandered. If we trace their lineage back, up I suppose because family trees always grow from the leaves to the roots and not the other way around, what would be the letters that started it all, that gave birth to the story that has become our lives? What leaves started it, what word is the seed that shot this tree into the sky and into earth proud and strong?
I used to wonder but now I know, I used to guess but now I scream it into the breeze that the only word I see at the top of my tree is You and it’s always been You. If you look close enough you can see and if you see you might know and if you think you know you might just stay long enough to read the words that flow through me and fill me up and overflow out of every place that I cannot seal off to the outside world. Take this knife and cut this skin and watch the adjectives spill down the sides of my hands. There are not tears that fall from my eyes but tiny love letters wrapped up in a shape they never intended and they, when find themselves wiped onto handkerchiefs and your unconditional shirt sleeve make new poetry without ever bothering to try.
It’s words inside me and I am overstuffed with all of the ones I’ve yet to say and all the others that have stuck when whispered or yelled into these ears that needed to hear them. What will they say when it is finally time for drastic measures, what will they spell when a grand gesture and only one will do? Will it be a long speech drawn from more than I think my body can spare or will it be one word, bold and in all capital letters urging me on? Will they carry the color of irony or will they be pure and hopeful and not leave their silhouette on all they touch? I have seen inside myself and the only question left worth asking is whether or not you will ever read them? Read the blood that isn’t blood at all and take the time to count the syllables that fall out of my eyes, taste the quotations and lyrics that wet my lips and will you believe me when I say that despite all the words that live where breath should call home, I am a haiku and you are a novel. I feel them, the weight in my legs and when an exhausted sigh finds its way out my lungs I can just see the evaporating lines of poems I’ve not yet written for you, desperate pleas I’ve not yet plead and secrets I am waiting to whisper into your sleepy ears before you find sleep again for the night. All I am is all for you and each and every time I Think I’m out of letters, more are born from the seeds you’ve planted and I cannot wait to watch the flowers bloom from the stalks that have become the veins in my arms, waiting to hold you. I will grow from the top down, from my dreams in the clouds to my feet that are ever anchored to the soil that loves the feeling of your bare feet upon it too. I am leaking letters and dripping verbs and bathing myself in the actions they long to take. I have so many inside me and I have seen them and know they are more and beautiful and haunting me like my body is an old house and they are the spirits that just cannot find the the light to leave. I have seen inside myself and I know now that I am made of words and that all of them are fighting their very hardest to get out. That the alphabet found a tornado inside me and has been scattered to the ends of all I am. From my fingertips to the tips of my eyelashes blinking slowly and closing in reverence and preparation for your lips touching mine. I am made of words and I can’t help wondering if you’ll read me.

Tyler Knott Gregson

Это было что-то ненужное и ошибочное. Половину фильма я проспала

From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then - in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life - was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.

Edgar Allan Poe