Even Oscar Wilde is sometimes not so elegant and witty,
as befits him, he is not always on top,
sometimes stumbles, dropping, if not to platitudes,
not to vulgarity, but to simple, expected phrases.
Even Wilde gets tired, tired of the brilliance of ideas and words,
falls asleep under streetlights, in cabs, clubs and restaurants,
on a park bench, wife and children have been sleeping for a long time,
pupils whispering. cover him with a checkered blanket,
as if caught fish, like the last vanilla youth,
he dreams of this, and he shoots in horror.
He dreams of everything - and dancing Salome
in carnival Brazilian feathers,
the unbearably vulgar film actress of early space Hollywood,
he dreams of Bradbury and a portrait of Dorian Gray,
dying slowly in the back of the library.
He dreams of Dumas, Conan Doyle and Wadsworth,
never became a friend
transparent lunar
disk
and early sad cinematography,
shilling, ringing in the subway,
viciously bites into the ears of a simple Soviet
alarm clock on two metal legs.
