I will see Winter soon
And I will walk under the white sky at night
Buy booze soon
And I will run away from passers-by
770 kilometers soon
And you can forget
Soon Neva and fountains
I wish I could fall in love in St. Petersburg
Someday, necessarily, in 5 or 10 years
I'll go back to this city, run away - the same straight avenues
I will see unshaven, strange but cute guys
Lost, slim and probably smoking beauties
Low bridges, night twilight
Yes it's all mine, I love it I conjure
After all, I dreamed of drowning all my life
In your cold embrace
Still, I don't think Peter will be happy with me
But somehow it does not matter, the city of rain is sweet to the heart of the poet
This nasty, forgotten, twenty-first century
Probably, it's a pity that I never knew the loud Mayakovsky singing Yesenin, the confused Brodsky and the ancient scoundrel Aleksandrov Sergeevich.
Not everyone was here, not everyone could love the city. But I feel as if he is saturated with them.
I hope, rather, flying like a falcon to occupy a niche, at a distance between them
That my name might be read not only on a faded tombstone
My grandchildren will be uglier than myself
Isn't that all
But it's still better to go back to basics
To say how bad my soul is
Suffering is a way out of any situation
Especially if you give them free rein
Feelings after falling in love are like orgasm after masturbation
My dream is not to get to something like autoophilation
Body carvings, merry substances running through the veins
It's a pity, again left with nothing and with no one, again lost
Loneliness is more of a way out than an escape
Girls - do not understand and do not accept finished
Then you have to cum under fat Asians bitches
And I will probably be fashionable if I continue to drive about violence, insane and porn
How glad I am to be alone again
Evening, night, the wind will grab me, they won't reach me even if they burn my body
I will shave and go where I haven’t been yet, where they will not reach
Even if they promise a hundred other blowjobs to a schoolboy like me
I do not want to be announced in a society that is not up to me
I was not and I am not
This is the only correct answer
Still, I don't think Peter will be happy with me
But somehow it does not matter, the city of rain is sweet to the heart of the poet
This nasty, forgotten, twenty-first century
After all, all the poems have already been written
All songs are not re-recorded for the tenth time
And books and movies have become a haven for all that
What directors and writers of the past were so afraid of
Everything has turned not just into nothing
Ideas just ran out
No more thoughts and no more thoughts
And every passerby is too similar or tries to be similar
On the portrait of a former sleek writer
That he died from an overdose
In my thoughts without coming up with anything better
than a passerby hero
similar to myself
of the past
Take me swamp-stone city
I will drown in your fountains and closed yards
Picking up the HIV of local vagabonds
Pour me some more, otherwise it has completely gone out
The chest will not break, the beating of the heart caused by you
