Kirsanov poet biography

The return I stood in a thunderstorm for a year, shaken, but not broken. Rubanok, drill, cutter - poetry, craft mine! I drank, on your string all the zabins are rusted. The instrument without a master was inactive, a cleaned box. Words, you went to the dictionary, you are already three -layer dust. The hand is still so weak - poetry, my craft. An unsettled Hall as a forest, rarefied by a leg, yellowing your drawing with a forgotten pipe.

Like nails of the size of all, the regions are scattered. But how do you pull in the workshop, poetry, my craft! At least give a pension of pensions - what is the fate with her? No, the soul of labor altings over the future song is a song! Not the night is already cloudy. As it has been agreed all your life - wake me at six in the morning - poetry, my craft! Let, like a cargarita cargarital, without weeds and verniki, is waiting on the table of the confusion of scattered drafts.

And my little table is not a bunker, and who wants to - let him take. He will find a calendar on it with business for a hundred years in advance. I wanted to live at the limit - with desperate at the end of the week, that again I did not make something, that Sunday is day idle. And he was in no hurry to take it into print, but again - new to start. Therefore, they will notice between the poets: "He was rich in projects." Among the unfinished ones, among the unprofitable paths - let me be considered unfinished, and in that I do not see illegitimate!

I do not want to live with the tasks of the memories of dear ones, but I want to leave a bunch of plans and tasks for others. Take it - not fearing losses. And I - out of time - now. Is it worth it? The storm beat in them. He was young and sweet ... A fleet floated into the port. With a winning ticket, I was living. I remember that he lived. Heat, rain, thunder.

Wet boulevards ... night. Eye light.

Locon at the shoulder ... walked all night. The leaves were cut off ... "We", "you", "I" gently flying. The salt of the void of the bed knew the salt of tears ... A night without sleep without warmth - gus, like a gas, an empty city. A look without eyes, windows without glass. Where is that snow? How skis glided! Where is that beach? With gold sand! Where is that forest?

In a whisper - "closer." Where is that rain? Smell the dream. Do not look, do not ... sleep is not life. I dreamed and forgot. Sleep like moss in ancient colonnades. I lived, I was ... I remembered that I lived. And now you are still like a trace, a trace of a rocketly glowing years. But now you are not a way, but a dotted line along an arc of a speed track.

The plane flew away, but a chain loop is light in blue. But she blurred and floats ... That's all that she left the flight. And the beam looks from gray clouds in the mirrors of a puddle - how the spruce grows, how buzzing bunts, how to shine. Oh, mushroom rain, stretch the thread down the thread, all the bushes are waiting - let the branches live, let the flowers drink.

Attach to them, light beam, a million lenses, look into the ground, in the roots of herbs, make out life. Look, a ray, and in my depths, explain - how to wash off the dust from the soul, to drink the land, clarify the darkness? But it was raining, and thunder gone into the forest, and, in tears, all of the window looks at my house into the distance. And around the music, and, twisting the stars, the fireworks are glowing.

Oh, ponds are clean, Christmas star, Christmas in the city. Bending the muzzles, the proud horses are spinning endlessly. Oh, my horse is fiery, in blue apples, with a crown, a horse with a leather saddle, with a mandstack forged, with a grinding stamp, as I again want to grab my neck and rush into a distant life of my fast, my clean life, distant distance! What has passed - it ended, but one thought is still daring: maybe somewhere else the children's carousel is still spinning?

Yes, it is spinning in the shower, and, creaking with shods, all those horses fly ... But to what abyss, oh, my gray, are you chasing me? Where on them the shadows of the former us - those? Where is he hidden, laughter or a cry of pain? Under the floor, or what? Oh, an empty house, not a soul in it, the void in the house, no one except evil, empty phrases, inanimate eyes, two strangers - us.

I walked for many years ... Once on a sunny day I saw that my shadow was not coming with me. He looked back: on a strip of earth, my shadow remained lonely in the distance. As an eclipse of the sun, she remained to lie, and it is no longer possible for me to run to it. There is no longer a milestone ahead, far, far, I went away from myself; Far, I went the ruts of the wheels from sparkling eyes, from gypsy hair.

Far from among the sleepers and stones from my shadow lying in unconsciousness. I don't want to compete with them anymore. Let the mirrors laugh: Star! No, you don't live me. I became silver -white, but like the stood - at the start! Blue eyes wiped. I understand who I lost. Dear passers -by! Why did you slip with dry eyes? Or do you not lose yourself? Why don't you cry?

Hide your tears, how are birches are hiding bitter juice under the Koroy in the cold? .. A man in a trolleybus rode, middle -aged. Bitterly and cloudy look through the glasses, he tore his passport card to shreds. The female mouth flew from the window back from the window, a torn, surprised look ... What is it made by her or them? But what's the matter for us, citizens of a stranger?

After all, it will not be asked from us, even if he jumps out and rushes from grief under the car. This is a personal matter. At least under the wheel! But how do I indifferent to keep my face? What are we hesitating to shout to him: Wait! Is it to us in a trolley bus - not our own?! The voice from the distant, the voice from the past from from behind hugged me.The eyelids covered the flowers with his palms with fresh, pink south ...

Fingers familiar for centuries are balanced, I find out: yes, it's you! Bitter, brief joy of a date; Alone and not alone ... began to ask a voice from the distant: - Remember me in your house? Who are you dating? How do you breathe? Do you smoke a lot? Are you getting up early?