Текст песни Записки на Теле - Дни меланхолии

* * * Monday. I'm leaving * * *

Monday morning, steps erase the cobblestones of the old, central street.
A woman with a stroller, haste, tightness, an old man stooped with an outstretched hand.
The time is specified by the ringing of two bell towers with an interval of a tenth of a second.
The sun, with all its generosity, gives the feeling of dying fresh flesh.

Pedestrian crossings obey broken traffic lights, the lanes have been worn out over the years.
Feet slide on the hot asphalt, towards faded, living houses.
The bridge wriggles like a hunchbacked old man, a worked turner, a World War veteran.
Phone "good morning", bones creaking to the desires of the dark side.

* * * Tuesday. I exist * * *

I suddenly felt my right leg wrapped in fresh asphalt.
The heat is about thirty degrees with the faded paint of signs of shops of various rubbish.
Passers-by float in their inner world, leaning on the handrails of formed points of view.
Trying to idealize my life to the canons of fashion magazines, which I look at with contempt.

Exhibition centers are packed with paintings by contemporary artists and sculptors in their twenties.
Hipster girls with boys arm in arm, artistic bohemia in the spring of the thirteenth.
Blood loss from open wounds, pale skin resembles slow mortification.
Children of existentialists lie in filled bathtubs with blackened eyes, numbness.

* * * Wednesday. I'm drowning. * * *

The sea is filled with the taste of time-worn, sunken bones.
Seagulls with bloodthirsty eyes sit on the pier in search of an idea.
People rub the asphalt with tires, warming up the track shell.
The clock is ticking, the minutes dissolve in seconds, the mechanisms rot from the inside.

The grass is trampled by other people's traces, the wind walks, tearing through the bodies of the desperate.
Birds without wings, a three-legged kitten froze watching the steam from the kettle.
Linen on a rope no longer sways in the wind, paints spread out in warm rays.
Sandboxes are filled with material emptiness, children no longer build sand castles.

* * * Thursday. I'm already 23. * * *

I already turned twenty-three in the twelfth, with sadness comes realization.
Life goes on with its flowing rivers, in search of the sources of mutual understanding.
Yesterday's twenty-three pages filled the mind with the demagogy of its existence.
I was sick of Sartre, him from me with the pages of a closed, read-out novel.

We did not agree, epochs shared the handshakes of wrinkled, flabby fingers.
I was too young, good-looking at eighteen, he was already an old man and a sufferer.
I was sick of people, senseless suffering, love litigation and self-lingering.
He was waiting for a meeting with a virgin who scoffed, destroying the ground for love promises.

* * * Friday. Zombie. * * *

I am alive, I am a dead man, my end, the ridge of the wheel of life.
Muscles no longer feel pain when they are torn apart by the tissue that will cover the skeleton.
The wooden box has two windows and four dense, riveted edges.
A lonely poet, a lonely tram, takes the dead out of the city for exile.

Atrophied tightly, degrades the brain, the heart does not feel someone else's flesh.
The old quarter is crumbling, dead souls fill the morgue, and then into the obituary.
Black biomass in mourning rivers floats downstream towards pristine pastures.
Roads are blocked, crows are settling in, the city has turned into a living cemetery.