I turned over the vase
|
I almost vomited on their snouts again right away
|
Due to spasm, the pain of a strained eye
|
Everything was so miserable, prim, dirty
|
I turned over the vase
|
I almost vomited on their snouts again right away
|
Due to spasm, the pain of a strained eye
|
Everything was so miserable, prim, dirty
|
Among those pleasures is dangerous
|
Cover your eyes cleanly with a band-aid hastily
|
And I fucked all these cheap fables
|
Why not see, not hear, what could be more beautiful?
|
But I went far from their passion
|
Apparently the wrong suit, I forgot their incarnations
|
In his caste, while in the rest
|
I see only the useless handwriting of the swastika
|
And I remembered this girl differently
|
The one that trembled played with different colors
|
Body burned with virgin guilt
|
And what has become of Nastya now, with her passion?
|
Eyes are gone, worn hollows of melancholy and sadness
|
They tore their brains to pieces and were silent
|
In clubs of bar smoke, getting pretty drunk
|
Black mascara flowed down her cheeks
|
Sergey, Seryozhenka, either a friend, or a husband
|
Something about feelings, uh-huh, yeah
|
From the wine it became empty, and swallowed the wilderness
|
Nastya, come on, eat better, there's a menu over there! |
And there the unrepentant vodka was jammed
|
Were driven into chairs, dumped into the depths of consciousness
|
It stank of drama, leaky frames did not help
|
Merged ladies complemented the gamut with walls
|
The shuffling of glasses, the romance of a faded shawl
|
Blind stares, oozing pus from the charm
|
It was nearby, eyes looked into mugs
|
What a shame. |
Let's kill her with drunk whores!
|
Idle thoughts, idle gossip
|
Endless masses feed on supper
|
The pictures are blurred, the containers are drunk
|
As if the glasses of fate are broken, but poured in a new way with heat
|
The wine whispered about the old, I already thought I was crazy or what?
|
Didn't heed in the look of pain
|
Eyes from under the hair without looking pricked
|
That spring they cut off both legs of Uncle Kolya
|
I looked at my mother under the ceiling
|
Swallowed a lump, then screamed
|
Drove off later, set sail with dreams and an umbrella
|
Left a sad little old house
|
Tears were completely wiped away, to dust
|
Eyes captivated for a moment and closed, forgotten
|
You can't stir up how you lived
|
I saw the veins, how the cheekbones played, damn it, but somehow they still lived!
|
And I remembered this bitch differently
|
Other thoughts, phrases, meaning of what was said |
Now she was facing me, but with her back
|
And what happened to Nastya now, what kind of misfortune?
|
Sliced wrists, leaky veins (veins)
|
Ampoules of blind happiness
|
Aura faded a long time ago (long time ago)
|
Different bonfires burned bridges, dirty places
|
I mean, it has nothing to do with it, about anything?
|
She still gave warmth, beat her hands on the table
|
The fool screamed what, but it was not that
|
She gave birth in the dusk sobs
|
Breathed heavily, kept me from showing myself as a tough type,
|
But my gaze, like an enemy, was wild
|
And only when I took a sip of cognac, for a moment I went limp and wilted
|
I was just sorry
|
It's a pity that communal dump, Uncle Colin's rocking chair
|
Three-year-old Misha's eyes, there is a dumb question in them
|
He has not heard since birth and gave birth to many tears
|
Sorry for the letter from a brother dressed in camouflage
|
Letters without an addressee, sorry floor
|
It's a pity for the house, it's a pity that it's completed and closed
|
Dolistan and buried, and behind the scenes the dull look of Nastya
|
The fresh air sobered up, and I didn’t really drink
|
Flew a gray shard
|
From four sides that threatened to crush
|
The platform met me to see me off |