Book: Black man

There lived a boy
In a simple peasant family,
Yellow-haired,
With blue eyes...
And here he became an adult
To that poet,
Even with a small,
But easy grip force
And some woman,
Forty-odd years,
Called nasty girl
And his Milou.

After all, now the moon.
What else is necessary
Filled with slumber miriku?
Maybe with thick thighs
Secretly come "she"
And you could read
Your dead languid lyrics?

Black man
Looks at me in the face.
And eyes covered
Blue vomit, -
As if to tell me
I'm a crook and a thief,
So shamelessly and brazenly
Robbed someone.

Black man
Leads the finger by a vile book
And, gnusova me
As over the dead monk,
Read my life
A scoundrel and profligate,
Catching up on the soul with the longing and fear.

Oh, I love poets!
Funny people.
They always find I
History, the heart of the familiar, -
As pimply students
A long-haired freak
Talking about worlds
Dripping with sexual languor.

I haven't seen anyone
Of scoundrels
So stupid and unnecessary
Suffered from insomnia.

Black man!
You wretched guest.
It glory long
About you posted.
I am furious, furious,
And flies my cane
Right to muzzle him,
In the nose!

Happiness
There is a sleight of mind and hand.
All awkward souls
For accidents always known.
It's nothing
What a lot of anguish
Bring broken
And false gestures.

... Month died
Blue in the window dawn.
Oh, the night!
What are you, night nakoverkala?
I'm standing in the cylinder.
Anyone with me there.
I'm the one...
And - the broken mirror...

My head is waving his ears,
As the wings of a bird.
It on the neck, legs
To loom more than stand.

In the storm, in the storm, in everyday sting,
In heavy losses and when you're sad,
Seem to be smiling and simple -
The highest in the world art...