About the author: Alexander Mikhailovich KABANOV. Was born
Publications: journals Workers and Peasants Correspondent. Sail (Shift Work), Change, Flask hour, Khreshchatyk, Honeycombs, Rodomysl collective collections: Streams, What are we? Let’s try to understand. , St. George’s Day, Wild Field, Russian Poetry in Ukraine (
The sea crunches candy for cheeks,
poker cut and poher him
cooling in the Old Crimea.
In the evening, the sea was heated by puppies –
I did not read Mu-mu in my childhood.
Here is a sanatorium of writers at sea,
old boaters boarding house:
pretty young seagulls and tea
(the boat is tucked into his pants). And Honore,
even Balzac is no longer to blame.
Even a balm brought from Riga
the love affair –
ran out of potassium permanganate.
In the evening – the time of water and grass,
in the evening – time rots from the head.
The dead surgeon continues to treat,
you can hear – can not be distinguished –
crunching with snow biting into a persimmon, –
the sea, which is in the Old Crimea.
There was a window on the dragonfly retinas,
the wind was brushing cherry paws.
It smelled and was dark
Like the inside of a kerosene lamp.
Forgetting damp matches crickets,
roses of the south,
children slept in their garden
but already hugging each other …
Golden terrace walnut railing,
and, wearing a tunic on his shoulders,
over the abandoned house the archangel hovered …
What did you dream, Adolf and Joseph?
You start the phonograph
no whore or pets.
Charms playing a telescope
one-eyed black sun.
You do not know yet which party
on lost or net:
Mongolian leaves for a walk in a restaurant
and slaughter pianist.
Will you get;
The Martian Miracle Cries:
Nothing, if you break my heart,
after all more necessary in the household tableware.
The driver freezes the souffle cools
crow crows whistling twig
And spinning, spinning, – sits on the needle
Kaifolovka, mulatto, plate!
From the very black forces
I chose beauty –
On him to woo enemies
and betray friends.
What a sea of shores
such a life! Museum.
In ports, in portico – a hole in a hole,
so put in fuel oil
Married b on a guide,
an – no: the cops are driving!
We all measured the nook,
ink, table and chair.
I pinned you, mate –
and you – not deceived.
The louse does not blush with shame,
and who is her master?
And you swim with my shoulder,
Why the fuck is your pipe
Why bother – the wave?
What you do not need
And I need you so much.
We are all alone. And we will not soon –
weary snow runners crawl.
Bells of the Assumption Cathedral
lick your lips in the cold.
The quietest day
harnessed dogs and race to the ravine.
Ecumenical, orphanage children,
We are all alone. We are all one.
Oh, the sled, gently greased
domestic birds stolen on Christmas Eve!
Let snuggle concessionary passenger
to your back, snotty tribesman!
a fallen snowstorm.
We are lonely because in people
do not have time to get out.
Bells, heavenly wounded,
lap up the clouds. Not soon –
on the shoulders to take the barked sled
and come to the Assumption Cathedral.
Unforgettable taste of lies:
this drink is hard boiled.
Lord, if you do not believe in me –
I am grateful to you, grateful.
And cross – cross out:
do not give it to the slaughter of the beast.
Even for you, Lord, you lie –
I believe you, I believe you.
Behold, the earthly vale has opened,
behold, love has renown love.
Lord, who is this with you,
frowns his primitive eyebrows?
Free will of soul to promise
you can’t order her: on the way out. With things!
Lord, how can you forgive –
If we don’t
My dear friend! Such a night in the Crimea,
that I am not a caretaker of my heart.
Paradise is full. Heaven sagged
spend the night in an inverted arba
And if thoughts come before bedtime,
how to fall out?
This night tokay spill
through the cracks
flows and thickens, august.
So gentle smell the stellar depths
your blue armpits;
Already half empty,
to river water, squatting, from slopes –
the garden is slipping – rough and apricot!
In a tin can – a star floats.
Oh, woman – burnt flint:
so hard, so scary, so happy!
Wooden birds wall clocks
migratory birds of autumn forests.
For lack of time, firewood and servants,
the first birds – split and start the fireplace,
and second, migrants – on this fire
Bunch of grapes. Through nutmeg chicha
the night longing of the game comes through –
the most hunted, the most deadly breed,
knocked down by a flight of bad weather.
Do not be sad
I allowed you to dig into the juicy flesh,
I let you out of the goose back
pick it up!
aviators Taube, airplanes.
We will spit out a fraction of the skull and glasses,
And it’s not hard to guess from our lips.
Late dinner. Three kisses without twelve.
Still dark and so sleepy,
what to say unbearable.
stretched his knees to his stomach.
Yellower mandarin peel,
on the very edge of the springboard
rises on tiptoe a star.
And, as if swimming, opening the curtains,
still up to the elbow
you go back there
where in the hot lampshade,
moth is on duty –
end light to life
You come back to the language
plaintively and greedily –
dawn suspended by the gills
pear garden yesterday
full of crickets!
Nadran and spaceboat,
and fits in a handful.
And you are free. So free
what is it?
Ginger suit parquet in the living room –
here jockey conjured over mastic.
And the evening bottle light
was flavored with cloves.
Behind the lampshade cheek again –
whether Brahms, or the noise of Hellespont.
Although Kent invite zabuhat
even a centaur swim from the powerboat!
Here poems bit – rightly,
Apparently, these horses are exhausted.
And left to sleep at the table
and wake up. In the coming century …
Parachute silks rustling,
revealed a spare soul.
I rocked on the heavenly scales –
lonely, but in family shorts!
I rocked and looked down –
beneath me lay an untouched world
and unzipped the river jeans,
in thin fingers squeezing the tug.
South wind, tanned satrap,
he is invisible – and therefore right:
all trees in the ship scaffolding
lifts up her skirts like sails!
A spare soul was revealed.
Red air breathing anxiously,
I rocked like on the water
like a woman carried in the stomach.
It is cold, and you are without a scarf;
incredible winter around …
As if Pushkin – Africa dreamed
and inspiration – gone crazy!
Give the music, open the mitten …, –
grumble bear trucks.
And you make green tea for your friends,
when you come back from africa.
Ah, with the return! Here is the treat:
halva and gingerbread, homemade honey …
And why we sit without lighting, –
only a barefoot star will understand.
When the hungry snow ferments,
the barrier is inclined to feed the snowdrift.
Love is invisible, like the shadow of an equator, –
told me the other day one microbe.
An incurable longing arapov!
Mail dove through the Internet:
wake Pushkin, and he – Sharapova,
and that one – Vysotsky … Let there be light!
On my fingertips
you fall asleep, blond music.
There, in the palace of heaven, subsided
kerosene snore corncob.
Over you bowed soul
conqueror or ally?
All in colors and tears – good!
but – what are you silent about, my music?
Sleep pianos in the bushes:
each one smells like cocoa and a graveyard.
Let love turtles dream –
the whitest, untouched keys …
Like free verse and .. your mother –
square evening, is about to be de-energized …
You sleep because you play
this requiem no longer wants …
… Solomon DOSAAF emigrated to
I will not send. I am the Christmas dove of eaves.
Close to the boshevskoy kitchen, away from you and sin. AND
if suddenly suddenly enchants – Copperfield is resting.
I sit on the ledge and the eternal song Kukuya,
that the ground near the water, anyway, will lose dry.
I am ready for anything, for example, bestial charges, –
that these poems are not written in Brodsky’s youth.
did not blush in pure Zhytomyr morgue …
Sabbat song! –
The centaur familiar to me (horse thief and drunk).
Pigeon droppings, archeologist, alas, will not understand …
Without trophy one hundred grams, bears fly to honey,
the morning snow smells like chibbling, when loading, watermelon,
buckwheat porridge – shish. Belovezhskaya Pushcha – by the Union,
sleepy gas – Nord-Ost …
… Gulchaty is given to Vijay!
Life goes on. Well, I, from myself, continue …
Zhaleyny islet, my fellow Juleverny,
think up a poem, but you can’t cook borscht.
Defoe or Du Fu, and the enema is the daughter of the horn,
on Saturday, on the spirit – a solid Robinson.
Poems grow from the quarters
but they are sheared at close range, they are fed with compassion.
You can not sleep, you can not cry:
to Ivan’s mother, to Abramov’s slush
rushing gop-tsa-tsa !, crazy bird-three,
bloody sents otkushavshi. Wait,
stop, fuck, shitty moment!
Squalish islet, scoop, poem …
I love your eyes. It dawns barely:
all traffic jams in the sky again burned out.
Deaf and blindness
I raised bridges in a whisper –
between two fatherlands, which I do not need.
Poetry – Horde my label,
my bell, my tongue torn out;
on whose land shall I be found?
What generation me
throw literary fuss?
Let the mind be bright and calm.
I study the meaning of the birth spheres:
let my sight be one homer
let my hearing – just one Beethoven.
Saliva swallows and tweeing swift
there is a shower overhead
and follows me relentlessly.
And sleep is colchic. And evil
I have a sheet – galley oar:
I pull to me, I master stupidly.
Homeland is criminal;
over her pedestrian bridges
grow into the ground from a bird’s height!
My soul, you do not have enough spirit:
dark is dark
but in this state of things
There is nostalgia of sight and hearing!
Vaudeville, watery bouquet, fountain – renegade!
Saber-toothed granite, in the knees of the lollipop,
freezes, sparkling, and kisses the porcelain tap –
So the fountain dances, the Titanic!
In the measured distance, escaping from the head of the whale,
dip female leg in silver moles of sweat:
So the pupil is sharpened and the whaler is harpoon.
Respecting the diameter of life,
of the motherland arise,
and minute weakness – to stay, to look back,
but, sensing the reins, come back, come back, come back! –
in rusted steel
and into the blackened lips of bleach pipe.
Wide-banded steppe. Yellow bell.
an old Volkswagen, stalled in Askania Nova, –
Brother Alyonushka. Self Vasnetsov.
Bleat goat kid (with a wolf ticket). Sucks.
I get cold coffee
smells of grain milled Zina, hostess.
And outside the window, a horseless sleeper,
where was the manor of Baron Falz-Fein.
Even in the provinces – not do without moss:
It is a shower of ease!
And ostrich feathers stick out of the pillow,
as reserved thoughts about life and death.
My name is Ivan. I am Ukrainian – stepfather
on the subway line, Diderot and dots.
I was baptized – a Mongol born, by the way
during the flight Addis Ababa – Sochi.
When I write poems – my name is Abram,
Joseph and the Lion. From hangover – Ilya,
I am over! I am anti! Under
I am Harlem Stanislav from the Masai tribe,
who have mastered the English language butchers.
They say to me: Shamil, Basayev called you. ,
. Rain makes hajj, on Thursday, among the sands.
The snow does not grow wiser up;
in rich borsch – laurel foliage.
And the light bulb in the barn – alas, not aladdinka,
everything will write off the laptop, not remembering the relationship.
Hans. purr you
over a cup of coffee,
unwittingly bare Orel thigh.
And after half an hour, the trophy rubber
smells the whole world and plops into the bucket.
New York. I am now – Paul, freedom bounces in the chest,
nasty, in fact love. she is masculine!,
Oh, swan, libido! And fix – from Cartier.
Ex Vice Mandarin Dynasty Haltur,
some Michelle, the great grandson of Lao Tzu,
I, in general, no one: art and culture,
the story of hope from Yuri Loza.
The forerunner and the crown of the last abortion
and the first Eskimo, or rather Philaret,
I walked out of leotard for big sports stars
and joined the party. And the light went out.
Soda and sand, sweet pine sleep:
no fire rustles
not built up
not yet born a bribe taker and a thief.
But the draft already cools the temple,
and around the landscape – right on the canvas!
Under a pine tree and sand sleep,
How can they say that they are a window?
Two-faced weathervane crying:
do not see the ship.
I will not be great
not as leave you.
Well, let the rating fall,
just do not go away.
I’m farewell Jewish
From Petrarok to Petrushki,
as in a scientific research institute – from the lads, –
because – not pushkin,
© Alexander Kabanov HTML layout – by Text2HTML