It’s time. I am ready to start.
It does not matter where. open
mouth. I can not remain silent.
But it is better for me to say.
About what? On the days. of nights.
Or – nothing.
Or about things.
About things, not
people. They will die.
All. I, too, will die.
It is fruitless labor.
How to write in the wind.
My blood is cold.
Chill it lyutey
river, frozen to the bottom.
I do not like people.
Their appearance is not for me.
Their faces grafted
to life some non-
leaves look.
Something in their faces there,
that is contrary to the mind.
That expresses flattery
God knows who.
Things pleasant. they
no evil, no good
externally. And if INEC
in them – and inside insides.
Inside subjects – dust.
Dust. Carpenter-beetle.
Wall. Dry bloodworm.
Awkward hand.
Dust. And the inclusion of light
only light up the dust.
Even if the subject
sealed.
An old cupboard from the outside
as well as the inside,
reminds me
Notre-Dame de Paris.
In the depths of darkness buffet.
Mop, stole
dust can not erase. herself
thing, usually dust
not endeavor to overcome,
does not bother eyebrow.
For dust – this flesh
time; flesh and blood.
Lately I’ve been
sleep in broad daylight.
Apparently, my death
testing me,
raised, even breathing,
eerkalo me to her mouth –
I stand
nothingness in the light.
I moved. two
hips as cold as ice.
venous blue
marble gives.
presenting a surprise
the sum of its angles
thing falls out
world order of words.
Thing is not worth it. not
moves. This is – nonsense.
Thing is, the space is
whose stuff is not.
Thing you can bang, burn,
gut break down.
Throw. In this article
not shout: ”Ebёna mother!”
Tree. Shadow. land
under the tree for the roots.
Monogram sloppy.
Clay. Peaks stones.
Roots. Their binding.
Stone, whose personal goods
exempt from
This system ties.
He is motionless. neither
move or carry.
Shadow. The man in the shadows,
if fish nets.
Thing. brown
things. Whose contour is erased.
Twilight. not anymore
it’s nothing. Still life.
Death will come and find
body whose expanse visit
death, just Parish
women who reflect.
This is absurd, nonsense:
skull, skeleton, scythe.
”Death will come, she
will have your eyes. ”
Mother says to Christ:
– You are my son or my
God? You nailed to the cross.
How can I go home?
How to set foot on the threshold,
without understanding, without solving:
you are my son or God?
That is, dead or alive?
He says in response:
– Dead or alive,
difference, woman, no.
Son or God, I am yours.
Still Life Timoshina Oleg
