Текст песни Вера Полозкова - Саше Маноцкову, Мама, Осень, Мало ли, Снова не мы

Sasha Manotskov

what kind of life is friday and wednesday.
then Venice, then Warsaw.
I'm a music professor. my head is gray
and rough.

music leads through need, through unbelief and enmity,
like a stream, if you are not afraid of losing the raft.
if someone rings my doorbell, I scream that I'm not waiting for anyone.
it's true.

about everyone except tess - in those parts where I will be assigned after death,
I'll find a telephone directory, call her from the station.
will she say hello? ..
however, whatever she said, -
I'll be happy.
Polozkova, April 16, 2009.

how they say, mama, how they raise their brows,
one-day butterflies, such half-blood angels,
skin sweet cream,
tattoos along each neck,
bubbles rise up the nape, like in soda,
turn off consciousness in case of an overdose,
with my iron bearing, mom,
devilish training

mom, how they look over you, if you are not their friend,
mom, how they smile icyly when you are their enemy;
dietary nutritional foods
natural human extracts
hollow objects, mommy, cheeky evil fruits,
useless speakers
artifacts

how they are dressed, mom, how they are all too big
most skeletons
they have the finest handmade
terracotta soldiers, mama,
warlike voids,
blonde robots, mom, naked megawatts,
how can you make yourself love the real ones that you
when they are so tasty
surrogates

autumn is put on again from the sleeves,
electrifies hair - narrow collar.
my boy, I hope you are healthy
and take care of too heavy loads.
the world puts fragrant words in your books,
and in the speakers - new music.

the city stands thin after the summer,
chilly, like seven in the morning after a party.
nothing moves, not even smoke;
only the birds under the sky swim like tea leaves,
and the passer-by laughs at the steam, already gray.

you had your hands with an intricate vein map
hot laughter and a short scar on his chin.
the lighthouses looked at us pleadingly, like orphans,
the sea splashed like butter in a frying pan,
smelled of dark wines from taverns;

so the wasp, after killing, is held between the fingers - "sting. sting."
so they go roaring from the cinema.
this is how autumn begins - always with the orchestra, like Frank Sinatra.

someone remembers us together. for the sake of such a frame
nothing, nothing, nothing sorry.

you never know who comes to you at night, pulls the peel over your head,
trusts you with grains of bone, juice and pulp
you never know who gnaws stones and bricks, walks under armor through cold or heat,
to die of awkwardness with you, howl and cry
you never know who lies on your elbow, the scoundrel,
and can not utter anything, and spreads slush
in the middle of the bed, on either side of the face

you never know who is looking at you, as if shooting all around,
and counts seconds, and remembers both:
a dimple in the corner of a smile, a wrinkle at the beginning of the forehead,
tattoo, discreet, like a test
you never know who stitched you through and through,
in whom are you an axis,
cold edge
you never know who wept all over with love,
so as not to live -
through the lung, throat, palate,
and for two years does not know how to withdraw from her now

you never know how to throw and tear, put words into clips,
yes to play some performances there
but when he comes, lays down in your bed, he barely becomes alive,
and you're tempted to run away, isn't it
the rain makes a noise like a boiling kettle, rising from the fifth floor to the sixth floor
sit with the sleepless you never know when his strength is exhausted
he will have something to remember when you betray him