Текст песни Яшка Казанова - Елена Морозова - Фаза 3

believe me, feel - I hurt too
all this - not a whim of the abundance of life
so crumbles Krasnenkoe living;
so beating a horse hoof in the grass,
when it turns pacer,
not all, undeterred lashes;
so I want (maybe) to prick,
catch up with the air - lay down and covered himself
fly themselves to the seventh. below
crows, pigeons, gulls, even
sing fantastically. and they -
hooters in the tube. Without answering,
not hearing the call, you put the squeeze on me
to the point of blood on the ring.
painful fear of a feeling of heat
under the skin.
....
I was older, or just tired?
God bless him, I confess, the question is not of the flesh.
twelve lines of the living charter
Now take a different form. Do bad
Whether this is good scope change - hardly
'll be able to say with conviction, but if, in general,
everything goes as planned - tag, hide and seek,
Other amusing merrymaking. this is what
they comforted there, high up on Olympus,
We occasionally entertaining originality of plot,
plus the difference between the sounds: te amo, i love, ich liebe;
plus the difference between the faunas, which is not just a faun,
faun who seems, able to race with calypso.
I was older, but clearly less touch.
Twenty-eighth autumn slides on the parties.
I want to get wet. I want to cry. highly.
although not in February, according to dates;
ah, my parsnip dictates of others!
green leaves are khaki, soldiers
leave on the sidewalks, Washed clean.
...
hide between my fingers as gambler - ball.
I do not have a single drop of gasoline inside.
life - funny Station consisting of provozhaniya
blue cars with flying mansions
outside the window. obviously, my train without stopping,
intoxicated with its own speed, burning space.
smokes opium in the vestibule old Casanova,
tongue rolling on the palate dozens of "hello."
like memories, each of which
etched in memory as the shoulder strap cuts
linen, white silk. result
It is one - sit yourself and kalyakat.
isolation - is something that is not in the upper sunesh
desk drawer, postponing until tomorrow.
outside ships. ships leave the yard,
in half by breaking the path of self - to the west.
loneliness - this is something that can not be hidden in a bag,
does not fit in the glass, even adding the vermouth.
I look at the skin, admiring her figure,
consisting of a thin twisted wreath
of the tracks leading to the heart through the maze -
here to go to each, occupy yourself for years,
but his heart, at the very rhythm kromochki
find the child warm and naked.
you did not ask, and I do not answer you, perhaps,
why it is so painful childhood hiccups in me.
life - funny Station consisting of provozhaniya
blue cars with flying mansions
outside the window.
...
as an athlete in the last stages of dying
for the tenth of a second to the desired finish.
a hut, standing sideways on the edge.
like grass under the rough work boots. and you see,
like a dog, these shoes to shine before the looking-glass
language polish to please the master.
as a high achiever who stutters at the blackboard,
Ninny from the teacher and from the fact that it can not be
to touch at least look into it kolenochki,
under the table lacquered cloistered tightly.
as a drug dealer in his pocket, along with fines,
chewing gum, dust, condoms. like flashlights
a Chinese restaurant. as the Spurs scarlet.
a mare with shagreen glossy sweat from croup.
a bed sheet that tomorrow night I washed,
killing traces either tears, or ejaculation.
as a man, a broken jaw in the fight for equality.
a slap in the face, from which in the eyes of insomnia.
the machine at the start - if only just to refuel,
and then - on the pedal to the end, avoiding the unconscionable
all the boxes. it's me. the prospect of a night slalom?
well, brother, come on, my iron, take me!
and almost like a movie. and, of course, be born again.
and come to you
without poetry
disease-free
no name.
...
between the two arms
spoon of white wine.
sadness - the emotion without rules.
and without a bottom.

if the birds lived in violin,
I drank and used the pain.
small voice of the singer:
A flat.

in your child's eyes
and the movement of the king.
ah, how quiet; Oh, how fine
This "la".

Candle thumbs-bites hurt
by wading. and over.
You - an emotion without rules.
and without a bottom.
...
Christmas trees in malls sluggish.
the holiday is over. the lights went out.
That would get under the blanket
and write about each other fairy tales ...
you will be a princess in a smart, lush,
azure untouched crinoline.
I - robber. it just happened.
I was given muskets, wine poured,
Charco slammed by: act, they say!
albeit in consumption moneybags safely!
and to do away with the childhood,
sent to Boulogne. the night shift.
and, coming back, perhaps with the ball,
you calmly shook in the carriage -
I looked out the window, sheep thought
and, in general, I wanted to go home soon:
I wanted to get to the copper bath
with Melissa to nyankinyh hands cozy,
to book a desperate Medovar
and ship's boys, drinking dreams in the cabins.
which of the angels at midnight
on duty? I remember, alas, not so.
you hear a shot, are calling for help
and see me ... the episode is over.
which of the angels at midnight exactly
pepper and gunpowder was not enough?
musket. attack. defense.
I see you. DOT. titres.
so what is next? and then: sobs, shepot-
insomnia-sny-