Мне плохо
на плахе.
Мне хочется плакать.
Мне душно,
наружу
бы вывернуть душу.
Мне страшно,
я трушу.
Не спит моя стража.
Мне стыдно,
остыл я,
себе опостылев.
Мне больно
на бойне,
на месте на лобном
Мне тошно,
так пошло,
так глупо всё вышло.

Я люблю такие игры,
Где надменны все и злы.
Чтоб врагами были тигры
И орлы!

Чтобы пел надменный голос:
"Гибель здесь, а там тюрьма!"
Чтобы ночь со мной боролась,
Ночь сама!

Я несусь,- за мною пасти,
Я смеюсь - в руках аркан...
Чтобы рвал меня на части
Ураган!

Чтобы все враги - герои!
Чтоб войной кончался пир!
Чтобы в мире было двое:
Я и мир!

испытания ниспосланы вам дабы проверить веру вашу.
они испытывают веру, как огонь испытывает золото и очищает его.
и вера ваша для господа ценнее золота. если вера ваша останется сильной,
она принесет вам похвалу, честь и славу в день его воскресения.

Hey,
I know it’s been awhile since we’ve talked. At least really talked, talked like we used to. It’s been two years now, a little more. I still remember that evening I came home from one of my night classes and checked my email. September 16, 2009. I have a really good memory for significant dates. It was from you, without a subject. But I had a feeling the moment I saw it what it meant. You know that sort of premonition you get in your gut when something is going to be upsetting or uncomfortable before it happens, before you have any idea what’s even going on? It was just like that.
And inside the email was the shortest, simplest message I’d ever received:
“Can I talk to you?”
I knew immediately. I just knew. But I feigned ignorance and replied saying that I just got home, I had tons of work, I’m sorry I was so busy, I’ll talk as soon as possible. I even included a line saying “Is this something you can or want to tell me over email, or do you want to wait to talk?” I figured this would make me seem more oblivious while it really answered my suspicions.
“No. It can wait.”
And so I went about my nighttime routine with this thought in the back of my mind. This sneaking, consuming suspicion and worry. Because I knew. I just knew. But I didn’t know, not yet. It wasn’t confirmed. And I couldn’t take not knowing, not being sure. I figured if this was the time to feel this way, this was the time to talk. So I closed the door of my bedroom, dialed your number, and you picked up after a few rings.
“Hey,” I remember saying to you quietly.
“Hey…” was your near-silent reply.
“So…erm…what’s up?”
Silence.
“You had something to tell me? I’m here now…”
Silence. So I waited. And waited. And waited.
I wondered if you had disconnected, and whispered, “You still there?”
“I think we should break up,” was your immediate reply.
Silence. That aching, permeating silence.
“I…I kinda figured that’s what you wanted to tell me,” I sighed. “But why? I’m…I’m totally confused.”
“I…we…we…just need to stop. This isn’t working.”
Silence.
“And why do you think that?” I asked. “Help me out here. I told you that being at different schools would make this much more difficult once the summer ended. You said it didn’t matter. I promised to spend every free weekend, every spare meeting I could with you. You were thrilled. I promised to call at least once daily, whenever you said it was most convenient. You said you wanted nothing more. So what changed?”
Silence.
“Are you there, Shannon?”
And still, the roar of deafening silence. It’s funny how loud it can be, the absence of sound. But you hear it, don’t you? It’s not just quiet…it’s a dull cacophony of nothing.
And through that silence, you maintained perfect composure as you breathed and then stated, “I’m sorry.” And I knew you were. But not sorry for me, because you didn’t say that. And I could hear it. You were sorry for you, because you didn’t want this to hurt you as much as it did. You wanted me to accept the burden, the uneasiness, the questions, the hurt. And because I never wanted to hurt you, I did. I took it all upon myself.
“Is it me?” I asked rhetorically. Of course it wasn’t. But you wanted it to be. You wanted there to be a good reason.
“Can I do something differently? Can I fix something? Will you try, Shannon? Tell me what I can do to fix this for you, and I’ll do it. I promise I’ll try. Why didn’t you ever mention if something felt wrong before? We could’ve work it out before it got to here…”
Silence, once again.
“No…no. I’m sorry. I can’t…it won’t…” you stuttered, though your voice was calm. My eyes burned with tears. I was crying silently, because I knew you wouldn’t try. Because I didn’t matter anymore. I was just an obstacle, an impediment. A thorn in your side, not a warm hand beside it. To you, I was a hideous memory of a forgettable past.
“Are you sure?” I implored once. I said nothing else.
“Yeah.”
Silence. This time from me. Then, “Alright Shannon. Alright. Can we still be friends? Please?” I asked.
“Sure,” came your mechanical reply. Apathy hurts more than hate, you know. At least hate carries meaning and feeling. Apathy is the absence of anything to feel. But I felt so much because of your apathy. I was ill with heartbreak. And you didn’t care.
It took me weeks to get over you. Months. It didn’t help that you led me along the whole time. It didn’t help to find out that you started dating him three days later. It made me laugh bitterly when you dumped him a month later for him. At least I had lasted longer. A lot longer.
But I cared the whole time, you know. I couldn’t help it. There were days when I felt better, freer, when I thought I was getting over you. And then a day later I was crushed again. Consumed by the weight of personal failure and neglect. Even though none of it was my fault. But it’s always my fault, in my eyes. At least until I’m over myself. Over you.
You devastated me. And I didn’t even know how or why. And I knew you did, but I didn’t want it to be Читать далее...

She’s on top and I’m underneath and her hair is in my face and her hands are holding my cheeks and her lips are right in mine and she’s sucking my breath and I can’t fucking breathe so I throw her off and she falls into the nightstand and starts bleeding out her head and I try to help her but she’s limp and I’m not very strong so I start freaking out and smacking her but she won’t wake up and there’s blood on me and I can’t tell if she’s smiling but my cock is still hard and I can breathe better so I see if she’s wet and she is so I put myself inside her and fuck her back to life and the blood turns to hot chocolate and it’s sticky but not so bad smelling and the bed is marshmallow and when I come I come whip-creme, except when it’s fall because during those months I come hot apple cider. We fuck, we eat, we download music and wonder if the people outside our window can see us seeing them in their cars or carrying groceries or spanking their kids and where the right spot in the room is to masturbate with the blinds open but out of view of any creeping toms or accidental onlookers that might find offense to the spectacle of a man pulling on his penis, no matter the intricacies of his form or facial dance expressions, never mind the choreography and bravery it takes to incorporate a masturbating partner- dead as she may be, she twists her hips further than the blood-filled dancers that picket her, and I love her for it.

мне так по кайфу с тобой на мокром асфальте, а не по скайпу и не в ебаном контакте

Reaching heights most wouldn’t try
and depths they’d never care to go
Fearless and foolish, I flew too high
help me Dear God, I sank so low
Did everything they said I shouldn’t
played with fire, frequently burned
An endless string of bad decisions
Someone wiser might have learned
I’ve made so many damn mistakes
all that I loved carelessly tossed
The price to pay for my own way
somewhere something more was lost
As one by one, they disappeared
I couldn’t dare care, I must be free
Yes I lost them all, but most of all
somewhere somehow I lost me

i wanted to tell you,
how i felt.
but the words, escaped me
when it meant the most.
i choked up,
with nothing to say
except what i needed to say, to get you to stay, laying there with your skin hanging out- i needed something to keep you intact, like gluing a piece of china back together after falling three stories (forcing myself to keep scrap paper inventories), end over end- lip over floral print- onto the cracked streets where the homeless panhandle and the business men pen scandals- wives dragging children and children, dragging imaginary friends to imaginary places… only to grow up and forget those always smiling faces… and i’ve forgotten where this was going…
so i’ll pretend,
that i said what i wanted.
that i said,
what i needed.
and that you, soaked it up
like a desert tree
after cracked earth plea.
this was supposed to be something important.
something to hang my head upon,
when it sinks low like the first harvest moon
into a fall sky, bathing a city night
in orange light
but it turned out to be a twisted tongue, rotting and baking in the heat of the day, when the mercury rises and busts through the tops of thermometers, spraying glass into eyes and skin.

я верю в пользу запретного.

люди потеряли уважение к смерти из-за двух мировых войн.

все, чем мы владеем, дали нам мертвые.. наш язык и наши знания, способность чувствовать себя счастливым и способность приходить в отчаяние.

зачем нужно, чтобы тебя поняли?

Бог простит. он прощает даже таких, как ты.

повели в Париже на казнь осужденного. по дороге конвоиры остановились, чтобы подкрепиться вином. будучи людьми добрыми, они протянули бутылку приговоренному. он взял бутылку и, посмотрев на нее, сказал: "надеюсь, ни у кого из вас нет заразной болезни". и только тогда выпил. через пол часа его голова свалилась в корзину.

меня устраивает политика "ты меня не задеваешь, значит я буду к тебе нормально относиться". но мне нахуй это не нужно такой ценой. у тебя есть они, у меня была ты. меня это бесило, но это в сто раз лучше, чем ничего.

разница лишь в том, что у кого то действие без теории, а у другого теория без действия.

Утром я завидую тем, у кого есть сигареты,
вечером - тем, у кого есть любимые люди.
Этой бессонной зимой мы будем согреты
на расстоянии и наперекор простуде.

караван с любовью уходит во временные пустыни. я держала твою руку изо всех сил, чтобы не упасть. в этом полете я обрела свободу, почувствовав мягкость песка. боль. как пистолет у виска ошибиться достаточно всего один раз. я до сих пор храню те фотовспышки. ты вырвала меня из жизни как главу из книжки, перепутав меня с сентябрём, там один день забвения. когда забываешь, что мы были вдвоём. песка в глазах было много. дождь тяжелеет, добивая ноги, тротуары длиннее без тебя. но ты не поверишь, это не последнее. но из последних сил, грею себя на солнце. гадаю, блять вернется она или не вернется. сажались батарейки у того фотоаппарата и препараты. иногда думала, за что так ты. теперь в такты боли привношу.
люблю пока дышим вспышки вспышки вспышки.
и от начала до конца не вспомнить нашу историю. были падения, взлеты, обиды, радость и горе. я окунулся в море, в твое любимое море. и чуть не утонула с этой любовью. наши совместные фото уже удалены. воспоминания те лежат в соседней корзине. увяз в трясине, нужны лекарства. легче. вечером, мне не понять тебя.
я ненавижу тебя и люблю одновременно.
люблю пока дышим вспышки вспышки вспышки.

Миром правят мертвые
Мы учим наизусть
Их биографии и высказывания
И наступает жуть
Им достается слава, любовь и почет
В каждом живом мы видим
Ошибку, провал, недочёт.

Я быть устал среди людей,
Мне слышать стало нестерпимо
Прохожих свист и смех детей...
И я спешу, смущаясь, мимо,
Не подымая головы,
Как будто не привыкло ухо
К враждебным ропотам молвы,
Растущим за спиною глухо;
Как будто грязи едкий вкус
И камня подлого укус
Мне не привычны, не знакомы...
Но чувствовать еще больней
Любви незримые надломы
И медленный отлив друзей,
Когда, нездешним сном томима,
Дичась, безлюдеет душа
И замирает, не дыша,
Клубами жертвенного дыма.

весна ходит кругами
счёт не на минуты, а на объятия
я смотрю на твою фотографию
как на распятие
всплывают в плеере подзабытые мотивы,
я скоро вместо стихов
Тебе
буду писать молитвы.