SelfPub: Scoffer

Ah, dunno why your talent buried in the clay?
A world without Your poetry is silent, like a silent movie.
Spit on haters, whispering nasty things in the back -
You simply are jealous, they are so not write this.
Now, every second (seriously, not for fun)
I took the verses to scribble and share them online.
Show them all how to work old school,
How interwoven stick with herring in graceful sonnet.
Like a shotgun that was hanging on the wall since the beginning of the play,
Will razraditi a string, pass the planet Hello.
Throw in a crowd of imitators immortal: "Racla!"
And they'll never come up with a rhyme in response.

The devil* appeared in glory,
He was brilliant and terrible, smelled of sulfur
And a little paper
And paint green
And copper.
He handed me a heavy mirror in a bronze frame,
He told me: "Look!"
I didn't ask him about anything
But offending such of the donor's stupid.
I pretended not to notice
The label "IKEA", and hung the gift on the wall.
The guest vanished.
I aired the room for a long time,
For the molecule into the house by launching the usual soot.
And then I stared in the mirror,
His back turned to the East,
The North, South and West,
As the house standing on the Pole,
Just the opposite.
And I saw the whole world,
Reflected, of course - but it's too much.
And I saw the most beautiful women
Neat and obedient children,
And palaces,
And cars, more expensive palaces,
I looked and could not tear myself away.
I discovered that I can not sleep,
The food was brought by the neighbor,
Yes, I saw (from the mirror to escape impossible),
The neighbor is stealing softly to my silver
But she so skillfully prepared pizza,
Besides
The point in that silver?
I saw
As the beautiful women were killed obedient children,
How to burn the palaces,
Like cars, expensive palaces, turned into balls at the bowling alley.
I looked and could not tear myself away.
That would be scary
But I without a doubt knew
What do these people have heart to the right
This means that everything not seriously. All of the game.
There is no death.
There is only trams.

If Russia had a different budget
I would have went to serve her with a sword in his hand.
I'd spent eighteen years mindless
On the strategically important island.
In retirement, I'd open a tavern
Thousands of miles away from the glamor capital of the dramas
I would be free fed retired warriors
And every night there drinking by himself.
I would live carelessly and happily - good!
Only sadness would be increasingly in his later years,
Without hesitation to law school would I go
If Russia had a different budget.

When your heart knocks heart attack, as a battering RAM
And tactfully remind the guy, left a bit!
Remember about God. And shoving God into the closet.
Because remember, he was out there,
After her grandmother's death, all sorts of ancient stuff:
A stack of letters from the war, binocular, gramophone without a handle
All throw a pity, though, in fact, nonsense.
Hence, he is also there, old-fashioned grandma's God
Strict, watchful God with a beard grey and long.
Enter the closet, and there's one web, and on the floor in the dust the imprints of their feet.
What's the deal? And then I remember how God in the closet have been found among the rubbish -
You were drunk since you were forty
Exactly for the same reason you were a fool.
Well, where did he go?
No pockets, no lining, do not have it, check in the soul of all folds
No. it turns out that the God you lost.
Lost - and left in the fall, God and a few tears on the grave of his brother.
Before the eyes of the unshaven gook with a shovel, In the ear boomy pop (he was obviously broke).
So, look for yourself - so sum up, there's got to be (know it exactly),
About which you do not write with a lowercase -
God.

Vladimir Putin is still not quite a man,
He goes skiing, bathing in the river in summer.
Vladimir Putin writes poems and books
From the schoolchildren of the world thank him for it.
Vladimir Putin is always modestly dressed
And gadgets he has not to say that a lot
Vladimir Putin is no fan of the Internet
And time not spent on record in microblogs.
Vladimir Putin does not recognize weaknesses,
He can't be bothered to melt among the birches.
The last thirty years, he lives in the forest
And knows nothing about any of the St. Petersburg namesakes.

In the old creaky house I lived in Berwickshire Tommy,
Where the hills are green the fragrant Heather bloomed.
Narkisim stupid fairy tales from childhood did not believe Tommy,
Believed in sitcoms Tommy, in the "Rangers" and the rock-n-roll.
Tommy didn't believe in fairy tales, Tommy went to Glasgow,
The scent of grass on campus, to crazy spring
To swear love until death gentle green eyes
And in a year with a stroller in the Park walking with his wife.
Again settled Tommy in the old paternal house,
The fall was busy, behind her winter,
And quiet may night was heard by Tommy
And ran away in the languor of home away into the hills.
Fun whinnying horses, Heather rang on the slope,
The elves laughed: "Tommy! Tommy, let's dance reel!"
Nanking stupid tales Tommy, alas, is not remembered
He did not understand, he in the dance entered.
In the halls under the hills, bright burning flame,
The rhythm of the beat feet, heart beat, blood.
Son and wife seemed to Tommy a funny dream
Only to the dawn of memory to Tommy's back again.
Elves, laughing as children, brought at dawn
From Golden palaces, from the magical sleep.
Tommy in the face hit the dusty hot wind,
Racing on the planet where the last war.
Cry in the ruins, Tommy, cry about the dead house
Those who you cared about, your not gonna hear a scream.
All that you have left - nannicini tales to remember
Cry in the ruins, Tommy, stupid funny man.