Author of quotes: Boris Red. Page 1

People living childhood memories and thoughts about retirement, unless, of course, he's got nothing left to live for.

After the rain I like to watch the sunset, a great sunset with many shades - think, out there beyond the sunset, I truly live, and this I am sitting after a shower at the window, just an unfortunate double, a worthless parallel, God knows who.

From the threshold to God
empty and lonely.
Not noisy road.
Do not burn lights.
Edge stood the coin.
My song is sung.
Not out of me poet,
damn it!

Played violinist in the autumn Park, I quietly listened and stood.
I was alone - at least I didn't notice.
I cried and was shaking hands with the space bound.
Even though I knew that was a lie sounds, but I was afraid of the silence.
<...>
So life in the fresh page opened presents in front of me.
... The world will become pure, will be the new, like thy heart,
just underline the word and silence music - silence...

Lamppost, I welcome you.
For a late passer-by you by the way.
I lean a shoulder. Tell me, what
Pores
The way we cover the tears?
I'm only nineteen, and already
I know exactly where and how to die -
First of all leave, and then
Sell all the books. Next will be the cold,
I can not stand.
Man,
Your iron ages the Shine of tears
Glass. So enlighten me the way
Home
let it not thorny -
I'm drunk today.

I want to create beautiful,
sad, for this life
ready then, though the devil to pay.
Even the devil I do not like.
Believe me, reader, do not think for a lie
what's the use to me then in my soul?
My life, my friend? - the price a penny,
and I want to stay in profits.

On the black sea was running of the court,
and the sea gulls screaming:
"At first he was loving it,
he then died from grief..."

The rhyme is sweet live
and blue line running,
the sea, like waves
fleeing to her feet.

Angels sonalis through the empty alleys
Park. We hovered stupidly beside the pond.
We were young. And now getting old.
And to think, it's forever.
If I were smarter, perhaps, taller
umutina bitter experience asshole
I would say something like: "the Posthumous, Posthumous...",
as once said Quintus Horatius Flaccus.
But not at all scary. Only very sad.
My friend, give me your hand. Look into the eyes,
you see, the world is cold and empty.
We will die with thee three hours.
In the Park where we roam. Dying roses.
It is a pity that immortality is not revealed the secret.
And dozhdinki drip like other people's tears.
I rose withered bouquet will bring...

New year. The stars in the sky,
as the crystal. Clean, frosty.
Snow fragrant as the Mandarin
Golden. And that one with the moon
similar. Go for a walk with me?
If not, then I am one.
How can we frost
to scare? Swallow the tears
along the road lights,
like children, life in the quarrel.
Oh, don't you see? The grief -
you squinted look.
Only at night Christmas,
my friend, breathe freely,
do you agree? Just
we will go along the streets of snow,
infinitely long, gentle.
Will come in vintage Park.
There's like a fairy tale: lead the beasts
dance - at least
I think so - around
tree. Squirrels-toys
on the branches. Come on, girlfriend.
Smile, my dear friend.

While I slept, everywhere the snow fell -
he was falling from the sky, white, bluish,
and even went the terrible people
with a huge makeshift shovel
and woke me up. And the snow I
didn't Wake, he very quietly fell.
I woke up in the middle of the day
and behind the wall a child is crying quietly.

Don't worry about the past, whether that was
even if it was rubbish.
Blind with something like Rhino.
On the window some geraniums.
I remember the evening succumb,
took a clove of buttonholes,
in the city of Perm crashed
from the philological girls.
On the dresser Teddy bear.
Groaning refrigerator "Biryusa".
So bad and so creepy
that is simple to invent impossible.
I want to tell you in advance,
dear friend, one day I will die
on another broken couch,
head aching in the morning.
If it is true it will come out
someone quietly cry behind a wall -
it's Anya's Cousin will see
the bright lights above me.

And sometimes the father spoke to me,
he sees about duck hunting
the dreams continue: boat and a shotgun.
And lake, where each island
of his sign. He said: not seen
I lake this reality
transparent, there is some hunting! -
imagine... And yet, what do you know
about our about hunting!
Bored, I stood up from the table
and went to read some Kafka,
feeling sorry for myself and write poetry
for Brodsky, that people
of course, alone in the square,
no, in Cuba. Or reluctantly called
a married fool, loving poems
for Brodsky, and along with me
some exotic love.

Crumble the scarlet maples,
blaze away heaven
pink sun-drenched slopes
I open my eyes.
Where and with whom, and when it was,
it's just not me wrote:
you never loved me,
I loved you very much.
Park autumn is lonely,
and separation and be prepared to die.
It's something before the Block
it could compose Ogarev.
It is in that antiquated manner
when people were burnt to ashes.
What is written, at least
in the first lines, remember no evil.
Don't look at me to blame
I'll finish my cigarette and go to sleep -
the rotten fence of hell
boyish swing.