ведь было время я слагал в уме истории...

there was a time
I was composing in my mind
stories untold
and everything that was beautiful in them
set up tents on the moon

a long time ago
now only outlines of numbers
are audible
sometimes with the rest of the echo
and all the stories are gone
as if not needed anymore
formed the memory of letters

written on the back of the gloss
there between revelry and slut
tender verses fell asleep
they want to be bad
plains mountains and spaces

covered with the sky
and memory is a cheap ritual
with a timid residue of honor
lights a red chester
but

unless
wine
poured?
Looking for the holidays with the ringing?
bailiffs assigned to memory
the basement was filled with subpoenas

okay still Landon
miles with visas
left-hand traffic cut
(acquitted by the court!)

but there were tickets
heights
depressions
words filled with sobriety salt
even a screwdriver in some kind of pad
twisted youth with self-tapping screws

cinema in an incomprehensible language
a pair of ikea dressers
cliché clochard and flared with leather jacket
flower growing from behind the ear
destruction of walls flourishing of floors
divination by tarot
on the very White boulders
gloom gift set
face covered with hand
and hair running like a river
juniper annoying bush
sparkling words taste
connoisseurs and assholes
five books for a hundred bad
nettle rakita mint
calluses on tired heels
screams and whispers
beer and shots
shorts
something
someone

bright light will become a smoky vestibule
night in September in a bed in a reserved seat
life will fit in a side note on the map
and quiet music (quiet music) will lie in marble

#fest of the bad