Sasha best biography. Interview with poet Sasha Best. Your eyes are as simple as dew

Our conversation with Sasha took place exactly on the eve of the New Year. Maybe it's no coincidence? After all, her poetry sounds like the music of a fairy tale, bewitches, enchants, beckons... If you have ever touched this magic, you will love the fairy tale in yourself! And you will carefully keep it in your soul. And if you get lost one day on the paths of fate, one of Sasha’s poems will help. Like following a thread from a magic ball, you will come out of the darkness. Necessarily!

Gift for grandma

Sasha, do you remember how you first came into contact with poetry as a child? Did your parents often read poetry to you?
As a child, my mother read me a lot of poems. They were easy to remember, so they complicated the task for me with poems of patriotic content of incredible volumes (smiles). Now, unfortunately, I don’t remember which ones exactly. But judging by the fact that my five-year-old nephew reads by heart “The Tale of an Unknown Hero”, “Uncle Styopa”, etc., I can assume that I had a similar repertoire.

Please tell us the story of your first poem. How did you want to write down your feelings and thoughts in poetic form?
The very first poem was written when I was six years old in a beautiful red diary. It was a gift to my grandmother for the Eighth of March. It’s difficult to say where this desire came from, but it happened that way.

Do you think parents can instill a love of poetry in their children?
I think that parents not only can, but should instill in their child a love of poetry. Poems develop memory, a sense of rhythm and, due to their melodic sound, are easily perceived by children.

“Mom, tell me, is this an angel? But gray wings...
Don't angels have white wings, Mom?
- Maybe, my dear, they are covered with dust?
- Mom, he looks longingly at the window frame...

- Sleep, my dear, he is the angel of a long journey.
There is a little sand in the wings from the midnight track.
Sleep, my dear, let's wrap our feet
A beige blanket with horses of various colors..."

"Lullaby of Wings", August 11, 2008

You can't be born a poet

What do you think poetry is? Almost anyone can write a few lines in rhyme. And only a few are given the opportunity to breathe life into these lines in such a way as to touch a person’s soul. Where is the line between rhymed lines and poetry?
Poetry is when you get goosebumps. This is when, after reading a few lines, you want to know how it will all end. This is when you merge with the rhythm. This is when you want to read something else by the same author. This is when the eye does not cling to the crooked construction. Moreover, it is absolutely not necessary when all of the above coincides at the same time.

“Poetry is when you get goosebumps. This is when, after reading a few lines, you want to know how it will all end. This is when you merge with the rhythm..."

Do you think one can become a poet or are they born one? Does a poet really carry within himself the “spark of God” or can any person be taught to write poetry?
You cannot be born a poet. You can be born with a certain predisposition to something. And, if the environment creates the conditions in which talent will develop, everything will work out. Or you can, like a generator, without having any special talent, but having a strong desire, through hard work, hollow out that very spark from yourself. If this spark is reborn into fire (which is given to others as a bonus at birth), then it will be an amazing genius of work.

Poet and muse

Sasha, please tell us the story of the creation of your nickname Best.
Initially it was a nickname – Bes. I was nineteen years old and wanted to show off somehow. Then, through much rethinking and advice from others, the nickname Best appeared. Russian letters with the Latin letter t. It was decided this way because the nickname is not greatly changed visually and, at the same time, does not become an eyesore for particularly religious comrades. And this has absolutely nothing to do with “the best” or anything like that. On sites where it is not allowed to combine letters from different languages ​​in one word, you have to sign as Sasha Best.

"No, I'm not a bird, I'm just trying to fly
But, for starters, at least don’t fall into the abyss
Falling there may be painful, but useful
The main thing is that you can get up later.

We are not friends, but I will not leave you in trouble.
I would like to understand what my freedom is:
Being without you is like drinking ice water
Or with you, but without the right to own you..."

“No, I'm not a bird, I'm just trying to fly,” May 31, 2009

You often write from a male perspective. Is this some kind of literary game or is it sometimes easier to express feelings?
I am not writing only from a male perspective. I’m just interested in “trying on” different images, social statuses, different sensory perceptions of the world... I think that in creativity you shouldn’t limit yourself to any specific framework.

How do you feel about the division of poetry into male and female? Is “women's poetry” really a separate category?
I am very ambivalent about this. With the historical change in the female role in society, women's poetry began to acquire a more interesting tone and richer content. Previously, I liked men's classical poetry more, now, if we take modern authors, I am more inclined to women's poetry.

“I really love Shakespeare, Rozhdestvensky, Blok, Gumilyov, Akhmatova and Tsvetaeva. Each of them made a special contribution to the process of the emergence of a certain knowledge about poetry."

According to the famous saying, “Pushkin is our everything.” Which poet is “everyone” for you?
To be honest, I don't really like reading poetry. There are times when I want to, but it doesn’t happen that often... But I have more than equal regard for Pushkin.

How does the process of creative growth occur in poetry? For example, artists say that in order to develop taste and a sense of composition, you need to learn from the old masters.
Everyone chooses their own path. We are all different. And we all follow our own creative path. A poet needs to learn language literacy, listen to more quality music to develop a sense of rhythm, read good books and watch talented films to “renew feelings” and be enriched with new stories. The rest is imagination and life experience.

Often the path to poetry begins with imitation of great authors. Tell us how to overcome this moment and develop your own style?
As a teenager, I copied poems by Maria Semenova from books about the Wolfhound into my notebook. I still remember fragments of some of them. So, at the age of seventeen, my first attempts to write poetry began. Imitation is not a bad thing. This is a learning process. The main thing is not to forget to put the results of your imitative activity on the table at the moment when you feel that you can leave the life preserver on the shore and set off on your own voyage.

“Imitation is not bad. This is a learning process. The main thing is not to forget to put the results of your imitative activity on the table at the moment when you feel that you can leave the life preserver on the shore and set off on your own voyage.”

How does the mystery of the birth of a poem happen? Does it come to you “finished” right away, or do you end up working on individual lines for a long time?
How nice it would be if a ready-made text came to mind (laughs). God would have given me the memory to quickly write everything down. Unfortunately, it doesn't work that way. Some lines come, and then you sit and think - “where did this all start?” or “well, you, comrades, have made a mess... and how are you going to get out of it now?” In this regard, some poems generally wait for their moment without a single line.

“...God knocked over a jug of milk,
And the morning got wet.
The sky full of life in the palms
It beat quietly.
There was a doomed pang in my chest,
Then it fell silent.
It's not the heart... it's the Universe
Stopped."

“Do it yourself sky”, December 27, 2009

Sasha, have you ever experienced a creative crisis? And how, if it’s not a secret, do you cope with “the ups and downs of the muse”?
Yes, anything can happen... At such moments I just try to focus on the flow of life. If I’m not writing at the moment, it means that my inner muse is planning some new grand idea. And there is no point in distracting him with all sorts of little things (laughs).

Sasha, are there times when you turn to your creativity - reread poetry? Do you have any “favorites” among your own works?
No, I try not to reread my own poems. To be honest, I have never even read any of my collections from beginning to end. Poems are reread either at the writing stage for the purpose of correction, or before creative evenings in order to memorize the poem and update its sensual side. In general, there are probably no favorites either.

“A poet needs to learn language literacy, listen to more quality music to develop a sense of rhythm, read good books and watch talented films to “renew feelings” and be enriched with new stories.”

In 2009, your collection “Soul on the Palms” was published by samizdat. In 2012, a book of poems “I Invented Myself” was published. Why did you decide to publish samizdat? Have you tried to contact publishing houses to have them publish you?
I had a moment when I contacted various publishing houses. Everywhere I was told that poetry is not relevant now. The second collection of poems was released by a sponsor on the condition that earnings from sales by online stores would go to him until he recouped his expenses, and then the income from sales would go to me. I remember the story: “He once went out to buy cigarettes, and we never saw him again. Apparently it was some very rare brand of cigarettes.” (laughs).

Are you planning to release a new book in the near future?
I don't plan to in the near future. We need to produce more material. I don't see the point in publishing thin books.

The roads of fairy tales

Plot-based works prevail in your lyrics. Each one is like a small story, a fairy tale or a novel... You perfectly manage to create these magical worlds filled with deep meaning, to draw the smallest details... Sasha, please tell us how the plots of your poems are born? And what comes first? Does the plot “lead” to the creative flow or, conversely, do plots emerge in the flow?
It's simple - I really love fairy tales, I just LOVE fairy tales. And I'm interested in writing them. I love the way they smell, the way they taste, the way they finish and the magic that happens. The primary entry may be about an “oak door” or “the smell of aspen in the house.” It doesn't matter at all. I want to touch it all, smell it, walk around, try the magic (smiles). And then the heroes choose their own path.

“I just love fairy tales! I'm interested in writing them. I love the way they smell, the way they taste, the way they finish and the magic that happens..."

What role do you think a fairy tale plays in a person’s life?
A fairy tale is something unique! This is an opportunity to immerse yourself in a world where everything happens differently from ours, where ordinary people acquire unusual abilities, where the power of love can do absolutely anything. We simply forget about this in everyday life. A fairy tale is a reminder to us of our real possibilities.

“A fairy tale is an opportunity to immerse yourself in a world where everything happens differently from ours, where ordinary people acquire unusual abilities, where the power of love can do absolutely anything. We simply forget about this in everyday life. A fairy tale is a reminder to us of our real possibilities.”

You have a whole series of poems about cats. Many readers copy the poem “The Cat and Her Man” into their notebooks and memorize them. Why do cats often serve as inspiration for your poems?
I'll start with the sad thing - I'm allergic to cats. But as a child, all the yard cats were mine. All the sausage from the refrigerator secretly went into them. They also have a unique superpower, along with seals and raccoons - the rounder the cat, the more beautiful it is. I guess I'm just jealous of them (laughs).

“In dusty Moscow, an old house with two stained glass windows
It was built in some kind of eleventh century.
Nearby lived a dazzling black cat
A cat that Man loved very much.

No, not friends. The cat just noticed him -.
She squinted a little, as if she was looking at the light.
Her heart was beating... Oh, how her heart was purring!
If, when meeting, he quietly whispered to her: “Hello” ... "

“The Story of a Cat and Her Man,” April 28, 2008

“Tales of the Bear” is a ballad about bitter, inconsolable love. The heroine turns to the witch for advice and gives her heart to the bear so as not to suffer anymore. Sasha, have you ever experienced the feeling of unrequited love? Should the poet himself go through suffering in order to convey the whole gamut of feelings so poignantly?
I think there has been a story of unrequited love in every person's life. This is such a necessary stage of knowing the depths of your heart not only for the poet, but for every person.

“...But I decided. And, having planned it, I did it.
Feelings turned to stone and tears fell.
The terrible bear roared and
She gently hugged my heart with her paws.

And without a heart, suddenly your head becomes like a drunken one.
Nowadays I don’t want to endure his pain.
Let yourself be pounded, damned one,
In the terrible mouth of the beast, humbly crouched.

My head is so light and enthusiastic.
In the Grove of the Fallen the sky glows tenderly.
I only heard people - on an untrodden path
The bear roars in inconsolable grief.”

"The Tale of the Bear", October 16, 2015

In the poem “Wolf Tales” you create a mystical, bewitching atmosphere. I think that many readers, like me, get goosebumps while reading it. How did the idea to write this work come about? Why did you decide to turn to the topic of maiden fortune telling?
I can’t say for sure why the idea of ​​fortune telling came to me at that moment, but when we were teenagers, we sometimes dabbled in fortune telling. At all times, girls were interested in looking into the future and finding out who their betrothed was. But sometimes it's better to leave things as they are. Everything has its time.

“...Why are you frozen, Marusya? Hurry up and sit on my back.
You will see how the leaves sparkle with colors at night.
But in our area, any girl is in front of me
Spreads across the steppe"

The moon turned pale. Silence reigned in the upper room.
Marusya perked up and took off like a turtle dove.
She screamed and threw the candlestick at the reflection in the mirror.
The night has passed..."

"Wolf Tales", February 15, 2015

Voices from outside

How much do the people around you influence your creativity?
More often than not, the impact is not very positive. I am a little annoyed by questions: “Well, how? Is there anything new? Not written? And why? Write something!!!" If you want to know if there are new poems, go to the page and take a look. Why so many unnecessary questions? The strangest question is “why is it not written?”

How important is reader recognition to you?
Let's just say that I am pleased when people read me. It’s clear that we all share our creativity so that we can be read. But I don’t really worry if someone doesn’t like what I write. Everyone has their own tastes.

Sasha, do you write poetry to order?
Yes, I am writing. I’m not one of those people who say: “Money ruins creativity!” Getting paid for your hobby is normal.

“If a negative review is written by a competent person, then he is doing you a favor - he is pointing out your mistakes. We must sincerely thank such people and rule.”

Can a bad review of your poetry ruin your mood?
No, he can not. If a negative review is written by a competent person, then he is doing you a favor - he is pointing out your mistakes. We must sincerely thank such people and rule. But more often such reviews are written by trolls with the intention of hurting or offending. Every person just needs to remember that trolls do this out of lack of love. Therefore, we either thank them for their efforts or ignore them.

You often hold literary evenings where you read your poems. How do you feel about other people reading your work?
I think this is wonderful! I remember how, as a teenager, I asked a girl musician to write the chords and lyrics of a song that I really liked. The answer was: “Only I can sing this song.” So, I believe that not only I can read my poems. And it’s just unrealistically cool when it’s not just me who reads them.

Ordinary life

How comfortable do you feel in Moscow? Are you thinking about moving to a place more conducive to creativity?
So I've been here since birth (smiles). I love Moscow! As they say - everywhere is good, but at home it’s better. Even on vacation I miss home, no matter how good I feel.

Sasha, please describe a typical day in your life.
I have the most ordinary days of the most ordinary life (smiles). Work home. Sometimes various events and meetings with friends in a cafe or playing board games. I'm not a very active person.

"You have changed. Me too, maybe.
We draw art with chalk on the skin
The herd feeling is not to be different.
Being different is a banal feeling.

The wave of watercolor is mediocre in gestures
Accuracy in words does not lead to ideality
In scarlet we draw delight and bliss
Only we paint perfection not in scarlet..."

"Coma", July 11, 2009

Is poetry your main occupation? Or do you have to combine creativity with other work?
Poetry is a hobby. Sometimes, of course, I have to take on various projects, but this is not my main activity. I work at Rosatom.

How do you like to spend your free time? Do you have any hobby?
I don’t have much free time, so I usually spend it watching some interesting film with a cup of coffee or working on another fairy tale that just won’t end. (smiles).

Sasha, tell us a little about your family. Is your husband also a creative person?
My husband is a saxophonist, so music is played often in our house.

Do you have a saying or quote that helps you during difficult times?
Quote that I walk through life with: “There is no way out. Happiness is inevitable! Suitable for any occasion.

Instead of a postscript...

Anna Akhmatova described inspiration as a guest “with a pipe in her hand,” before whom all the honors in the world are nothing. What image would you come up with for inspiration?

Sasha Bes(t) is an author “grown” on the Internet, and received recognition there. His poems about love are spreading across the Internet at breakneck speed. ProstoKniga will tell you about a man who writes under the pseudonym Sasha Best and his creative heritage.

Provocateur and revolutionary. During his relatively short poetic career, more than three hundred poems and more than fifty texts for songs and musical performances came from his pen. As soon as the author’s name loomed on the poetic Olympus, no one could say for sure: is Sasha the Bes a man or a woman? The author often wrote and writes on behalf of a man:

I didn’t write those lines about you, And not for you, or for anyone else. I invited the unloved to a waltz, And you, machere, I don’t invite you again

Photo source: vk.com

Biography. Sasha was born on March 8, 1985 in Moscow. She is a teacher-psychologist by education, and a poet by vocation. Sasha says that when registering on the literary portal, all the female nicknames she liked were taken, and she had to “get out.” This is how Sasha the Bes and the misconception about the author’s gender were born, and Sasha was in no hurry to refute it, because she doesn’t care at all how she is addressed. She often speaks about herself in the masculine gender:

You are not the only one, not even the first. I am unbridled, young, cynical. We will get on the world's nerves: Live for show, kiss in public.

Over time, the poetess acquired fans, and her poetry began to be published in collections, magazines and newspapers. In 2009, her first independent collection “” was published in samizdat. The title of the collection is the name of one of the cycles of poems. Sasha comments on the title: “I was once asked: “What would you call the collection?” Well, I blurted out without thinking. I didn’t think about the subtext, although the title says it all – “here it is, the soul - take it, use it.” The collection “Soul on the Palms” is notable for the fact that it contains two cycles of poems, “A Doll’s House” and “Soul on the Palms.” The title poem for the collection, and for the entire work of the poetess in general, was the poem “The Story of a Cat and Her Man”:

In dusty Moscow, an old house with two stained glass windows. It was built in some kind of eleventh century. Nearby lived a dazzling black Cat, a Cat that Man loved very much. No, not friends. The cat simply noticed him - she squinted a little, as if she was looking at the light. Her heart was pounding, (Oh, how her heart was purring!) If, upon meeting, he quietly whispered to her: “Hello” No, not friends. The cat simply allowed him to stroke her. She sat on her knees herself. One day she was walking with a Man in the park. He suddenly fell. Well, the Cat suddenly went crazy. The neighbor howled, the siren... The ambulance rushed by. What was going on in everyone's heads? The cat was silent. She wasn't his cat. It just so happened that that was her Man. The cat was waiting. Didn't sleep, didn't drink or eat. She meekly waited for the light to appear in the windows. She was just sitting. And she even turned a little grey. He will return and quietly whisper to her: “Hello.” In dusty Moscow, there is an old house with two stained glass windows. Minus seven lives. And minus one more century. He smiled: “Were you really waiting for me, Cat?” “Cats don’t wait... My stupid, stupid Man”

In 2011, the pseudonym of the poetess Sasha Bes (Bes - “Basic Unit of the Word” - this is how the poetess “deciphers” the pseudonym) acquired a new sound and another letter. From now on, Sasha Bes became Sasha Bes(t).

In 2010, the poetess became the first Russian citizen to receive the “Silver Sagittarius” of the prestigious International Poetry Prize. In 2011, she took third place in the competition “Poets of Russia 2011” and became a finalist in the III International Competition “Tsvetaevskaya Autumn”. In March 2013, Sasha Bes(t)’s second collection, “I Invented Myself,” saw the world.

Sasha Bes(t) is engaged not only in the field of literature, but also in other types of art. 2011 was a particularly productive year for her: Sasha starred in the documentary-fiction film “If I’m Deja Vu,” and participated in the enterprise play “Kitchen. Creativity Lessons" and successfully collaborated with the Ukrainian television channel STB. She wrote 20 song lyrics especially for the popular vocal show “X-Factor”.

Photo source: vk.com

Sasha Bes(t) writes soulfully, reverently, sincerely. Her poetry is without rules, it does not obey the laws of versification. The main thing in Sasha Bes(t)'s poems is rhythm and idea. Her lyrics make you look at everyday things from a different perspective. The poetess has an amazing ability to clearly show how people themselves complicate their lives and make complex ones out of simple things. In her work, Sasha raises the problem of misunderstanding and unwillingness to hear each other. Her poems about love are not feigned, they come from the heart, and therefore remain in the hearts of readers.

You are a white mega-crow.

You are a white mega crow
Of all the mega-white crows
You don't care about the crown
You don't care about the throne

You are a daring brave bird
Of all the mockingbirds - birds
You proudly spat in their faces
You've seen thousands of faces

You're a waste that was lying around at a construction site
Diamond among a pile of crap
Let everyone live in a joyful stance
Freedom is a different prison

You are a white mega crow
Of all the mega-white crows
You don't care about the crown -
There is always a cartridge in stock.

Not so much sad as strange rain

Not so much sad as strange rain
Not so much light as soft wind
When you fly away, you won’t take wings,
You, smiling, think about summer

Not so much sonorous as pure laughter
Not as good as strong gunpowder
Don't be torn to cleanse everyone
Save only those who were so dear to you

Not so much scary as sharp thunder
Not so much an extreme shore as an alien one
You will cry over the fire for a long time
When you find out about your loss

Not so much bright as a different dawn
Not as dense as living greens
I'll give you one simple piece of advice:
“Believe in yourself as I believed in you”

Let me go before dark.

Let me go before dark
The call promises me a fair wind
On this sun-red evening
I learned that fate is sealed

Let me go until the morning
The night prophesies one loss
You don't believe it, but I believe her
I'll go, sorry, I have to go

Let me go until spring
I'll go to empty origins
Life has overwhelmed me
Only you can understand this

Let me go forever...
I found my sister there
Gray-eyed eagle maiden
You're letting me go, right?

The sky is crying, but I can't

The sky is crying, but I can't
Tears painfully pierce the puddles
I'm just silently running somewhere
From the pitiful summer cold

Time heals, but I can't
I wish I could do it all over again
I'm just silently running somewhere
Forgetting that you screamed

The pain goes away, but I can't
I paint summer on the asphalt
I'm just silently running somewhere
To just stay somewhere

I'm still running somewhere
The rain still pierces the puddles
The sky is crying, but I can't
Nobody needs me like that

Will you be my only one?

Will you be my only one?
- I'll just be yours
- Tender, funny, mysterious?
- It's okay

Will you be like a free bird?
- If you give me wings
-Can you hurt me?
- You know, I could

Will you be as obedient as a dog?
- If you order, then yes
- Pale, dumb, soulless?
- I’ve always been her

Will you flutter like a butterfly?
- I will, but only for a day
- Can I call you honey?
“You can,” answered the shadow.

A story about a Cat and her Man

It was built in some kind of eleventh century.
Nearby lived a dazzling black cat
A cat that Man loved very much.

No, not friends. The cat just noticed him -.
She squinted a little, as if she was looking at the light.
Her heart was beating... Oh, how her heart was purring!
If, upon meeting, he quietly whispered to her: “Hello”

No, not friends. The cat just let him
Stroking yourself. She sat on her knees herself.
One day she was walking with a Man in the park
He suddenly fell. Well, the Cat suddenly went crazy.

The neighbor howled, the siren... The ambulance rushed by.
What was going on in everyone's heads?
The cat was silent. She wasn't his cat.
It just so happened that... it was her Man.

The cat was waiting. Didn't sleep, didn't drink or eat.
She meekly waited for the light to appear in the windows.
She was just sitting. And she even turned a little grey.
He will return and quietly whisper to her: “Hello”

In dusty Moscow, an old house with two stained glass windows
Minus seven lives. And minus one more century.
He smiled: “Were you really waiting for me, Cat?”
“Cats don’t wait... My stupid, stupid Man”

Internet beautiful idol

On a fake stage with dozens of lights
The Internet is a wonderful idol
We played zombies, but only them
Didn't play in the real world

We flooded the virtual world, not knowing that
I moved to real life a long time ago
Days have disappeared in the electronic stream
Yes, and someone disappeared with them

We fell in love with letters without knowing the people
Not letting love go overboard
They were freaking out wildly, afraid of spring
We got up early

We are trapped in a dark box made of walls
Promoting the real world
And then he stuck wires down our throats
The Internet is a wonderful idol

Mourning has passed, and you dress in black again

Mourning has passed, and you dress in black again
The fairy tale is gone, but you believe in its return
Number rule: Even comes after odd
Rule of Revenge: Only blood will bring cleansing

The month is April, only thoughts are shrouded in frost
You're not in a hurry to this summer, where everything works out
Rule of the sky: wash away suspicious - blue
Rule of life: all the best things come to an end quickly

Slush around, but dreams are primitively sterile
The black sun of midnight deliberately melted
Rule of honor: The weak will always be followed by the strong
Rule of death... Yes, to hell with the stupid rules!

I didn’t write those lines about you...

I didn’t write those lines about you,

I invited the unloved to a waltz
And ma chere, I don’t invite you again

Losing the world in internal struggle,
I smashed empty vases on the floor
I invited the unloved to my place,
And I never invited you, ma chere

All these lines are my self-deception
But I cut off these thoughts immediately
I am a passionate kleptomaniac of women's destinies
But only yours - I never stole it

And I'm not writing all this about you,
And not for you, not for anyone else
But I'll keep them all in reserve
I would only like to see you, ma chere, again

About the blue bird

Colleagues talked, friends chatted -
There is one fable in the world
So one day the wonderful me found out
That there is a blue bird in the world

Bird of happiness, freedom, wonderful ideas -
Creative bird, no doubt about it.
Only minus one - avoids people
This is such a feathered grief.

They drank a lot: for peace, for love and for honor,
For familiar, kind faces
At that moment I thought: “But still, there is!
There is that same bird in the world!”

My head is in a fog, but my spirit has matured,
I remember the bird... I looked, blinking.
It was as if someone was shouting at me: “Where did you run?!”
Where did you take the parrot?!”

Colleagues laughed for a long time, friends laughed:
“You had to get so drunk!”
And we sit on the asphalt: I have a cold
And practically a blue bird.

Piercing not in the ear, not in the eyebrow, but in the bridge of the nose

Piercing is not in the ear, not in the eyebrow - in the bridge of the nose
The throat is temporarily covered with lace
Shadows are placed on the eyelids and applied
The voice is calm, a little cold

Clouds in the soul, but expression outside
The inner world is sealed with symbolism
Sign on the door: “Caution! Aggression!"
Gunpowder in hands and on a small table

Hair dyed against nature
Rings with spikes - protection from time
There are stripes on the jacket
We are not human, not your tribe

Battle of Kings and Queens

Battle of Kings and Queens:
Power, debauchery, recognition of the people.
Coat of arms of war - winged white lion
Aristocratic breed

A battle of life and death
Just like that, to avoid boredom.
Some kind of stupid whirlwind
Conditions close to science.

Night of love, and in the morning a knife in the back
Everything is fine, boring as before.
The meaning of life is in a frantic game,
In thin lies, in scattered clothes

And, again, burying my head under the blanket...

There is no sound louder than the silence of the telephone. (c) Louis Wise

And, again, burying my head under the blanket,
As I fall asleep, I wait for her call
To be happy, I really need very little
From “I love” to “Sorry, bye”

But in this stuffy single-cell living room
Where you can only hear the beating of hearts
Again the receptors are compressed by a web
Some kind of restless spider

I often sleep to the sound of a saxophone
Clutching a written diary to my chest,
But the phone's silence is too loud
It hits your ears harder than a loud scream

You're not the only one, not even the first
I'm wild, young, cynical
We will get on the world's nerves:
Live for show, kiss in public.

You are educated, moderately accessible
I'm a goofball in a capar and sneakers
We are many-sided, a little criminal
Princes and bards in worldly brawls

You're alone in a crowd of lonely people
I am an instigator in a crowd of demoniacs
Together we will be unnecessarily cruel.
Afterwards, together we will find the culprits

You'll end up in a dirty hospital
In the morgue you will hug me goodbye
I will remember tired faces
Eternal summer and halo radiance

Your eyes are as simple as dew

Your eyes are as simple as dew
What will disappear with the ray of dawn
You know how to throw skillfully
Leaving love unanswered

And the words are as true as a knife
They hurt in the same way - cruelly and purely
Believing that falling in love is a lie,
You fell in love extremely quickly

Your thoughts are like delirium
What turns red during a fever
Your fingers bring the dawn
After a long painful hibernation

Your feelings are a hot volcano
Where other people's vices burn out
I'm forever caught in your trap
Suddenly colliding with you on the road.

Descend from heaven like a scarlet cloud to earth
I don't know how to wait more than a couple of moons
The green forest is shrouded in gray fog
I'll finish our path by plucking strings

The rain is like a child crying about a summer day
A fool doesn't believe - the fairy tale has a happy ending
We find the truth again in tart wine
After drinking wine, the queen walks down the aisle

Fall like a wounded bird from the window of hope
Fight like a hunted beast like the last time
With a slight movement, remove the halo of clothes
Let me get lost in the bottomless swamp of my eyes

Warm the serenity of your hands with light sadness
I don't hope to see you in my dreams
The sweetness of deception is the sharp beat of the heart
Salt will settle on a string torn by the wind

We chased the blue flame

We chased the blue flame
Bathed in fake music
We left our wings on the roofs
Seduced by other people's muses

We threw our dreams at our feet
We lay on the rails until night
Any roads are dear to us
But there are bastards everywhere

Trick or treat? Doesn't matter
Let's all go and make peace someday
There is no money, but life is not going well
We're not eternal, so I don't care

City

I hated this city because
That he was killed by cold houses,
And the black wind, through the darkness of the night
Strangled me with gray wires.

But the city slept in a bottomless void
So cold, stone and stuffy,
The smoke painted our faces, but not those
And the night was insincerely obedient.

I hated every single day
What I spent on the faceless streets
And only the sky is a narrow fence
She gave birth to sensitive, transparent prayers.

I was dying under the weight of the pillars
That they rushed upward with the moon itself, playing
And only the yellow eyes of the houses,
They measured the path from hell to heaven for me.

I'm a porcelain doll.

I'm a porcelain doll -
Such a tragic decision
It's sad and stupid
Expect consolation from life.

I love you my angel
Evil porcelain love
Your name on paper
I'm writing in blood

I'm beautiful, simple
In red mourning dress
The blood is imperishable, thick
Reflected in the gaze

Caress the stupid one in winter,
Gloomy cloudy spring
You will die and become a doll
And stay with me

We're stuck in the elevator. Well, who doesn't?

We got stuck in the elevator... Well, who doesn't?
Let's sit, it's a pity we can't smoke...
And there, outside, night falls...
There is no need to be afraid, let's talk?

Well, why are you snoring? I understand, it’s not sweet...
Are you cold? You're shaking... Here, put on my jacket
Take it in your bag, I have a chocolate bar.
After all, you’re on a diet... sorry, I’m a fool.

I remembered the guy you were hanging out with.
Such a cute tall blond.
How long have you been together with him? Recently broke up..?
Forgive me, I'm definitely a cretin!

Get some sleep, we'll be open soon...
Lie down on your shoulder, you are still sad...
Would you like us to sing some pop music for the neighbors?
Don't worry, be optimistic baby...

Not a witch, but just a princess from a fairy tale
Not a beast, but a fluffy kitten that grew up without a mother
We learn to live haphazardly, without anyone's guidance,
Drawing the plot of an unidentified life drama

Not a dream factory, but the empty dreams of an idiot
Not a genie from a bottle, but someone's delirium tremens
We exchange happiness for money in order to gain _something_
And _something_ bites our hands, waking up from hibernation

Not a farce, but a moment of killing a fairy tale played out
Not the roar of guns, but a whole night of fireworks
After all, in this city the soul is given publicity
And children in love acquire the ability of berserkers

A new step without spring

It's a night like yesterday
Like other sleepless nights.
It's just winter.
Cold... as always, cold.
Quiet voice: “Sorry...
Can I stay here? You want?"
It's just winter...
“I don’t know... most likely, yes”

A new step without spring,
But the birds are already waking up.
At the gray poles
The snow is melting and the clouds are flowing.
It's the morning blues
This is morning coffee with cinnamon.
This... no, not love
This is... well... "Goodbye" - "Yes... bye"

At a roadside cafe
Someone's violin was playing quietly.
Something was wrong...
Even the heart prophesied failure.
And no one knew -
Why did she die?
Even you didn't know
That she got sick of you.

Broken cats

The cat accidentally broke... take it and fix it.
Or... and this one in the cemetery of broken cats?
Why are you crying? I love you! I won't quit!!!
... the spiritual thread of life is cut again.

Will you let me lie on your chest?
There's something ticking so indistinctly - it's complicated.
There's something inside... Shall I touch it? Can? Is it possible?
Or... will it break? Oh, I have to go!

Just tell me - you can change everything here, right?
You repaired dolls, swings, boots...
I’m just scared, what if I’m like all these cats...
Tomorrow I’ll break... and you won’t want to fix it.

Children of empty alleys

We once stood on a stone bridge
And they became stones
And the air was frozen by the mutilated brain
Tight straps

Smoked, read other people's poems
To the sound of the piano
When everyone was running along the black river,
We just stood there

Broken headlights and car windows
They ruined the city
But we will come to our senses, we will run away
Through the darkness and cold

We will pray to whomever we want
And we'll be there all evening
Touch and examine hundreds of paintings
And think about eternity

We were looking for fearlessness in the mournful darkness,
We only found puddles
And hide in the shadows in the black window
We don't need it at all

We are a wild pack of free hyenas
We are lions on a walk
We are strong children of scribbled walls,
Empty lanes

***

I can forgive in a relatively short time

And I write poems for someone I no longer live with.

My bosom enemy, what should I do with you now?

Or, nevertheless, leave it as it was, and as it will not be

You won't make it to the angels, but I won't make it to the people

And that's why we cut so prudently from the shoulder

Volunteers are dear... too few to just leave.

At the same time, it’s fabulous for us - it’s painful just to stay here

I'm too proud now to take anyone into account

You could have kept me, but you couldn’t lock me up.

I, inhaling spring, exhale a painful sound

I'm used to sending it to... unprintable lines

I still forgive in an ordinary way - in a short time,

And I write poems for someone I don’t live with yet.

One of my favorite poets of our time Sasha Best, perhaps there are those who remember her with her previous pseudonym Sasha Bes.

A story about a Cat and her Man

It was built in some kind of eleventh century.

Nearby lived a dazzling black cat

A cat that Man loved very much.

No, not friends. The cat just noticed him -.

She squinted a little, as if she was looking at the light.

Her heart was beating... Oh, how her heart was purring!

If, upon meeting, he quietly whispered to her: “Hello”

No, not friends. The cat just let him

Stroking yourself. She sat on her knees herself.

One day she was walking with a Man in the park

He suddenly fell. Well, the Cat suddenly went crazy.

The neighbor howled, the siren... The ambulance rushed by.

What was going on in everyone's heads?

The cat was silent. She wasn't his cat.

It just so happened that... it was her Man.

The cat was waiting. Didn't sleep, didn't drink or eat.

She meekly waited for the light to appear in the windows.

She was just sitting. And she even turned a little grey.

He will return and quietly whisper to her: “Hello”

In dusty Moscow, an old house with two stained glass windows

Minus seven lives. And minus one more century.

He smiled: “Were you really waiting for me, Cat?”

“Cats don’t wait... My stupid, stupid Man”

Mourning has passed, and you dress in black again

The fairy tale is gone, but you believe in its return

Number rule: Even comes after odd

Rule of Revenge: Only blood will bring cleansing

The month is April, only thoughts are shrouded in frost

You're not in a hurry to this summer, where everything works out

Rule of the sky: wash away suspicious - blue

Rule of life: all the best things come to an end quickly

Slush around, but dreams are primitively sterile

The black sun of midnight deliberately melted

Rule of honor: The weak will always be followed by the strong

Rule of death... Yes, to hell with the stupid rules!

The modern author, who originally appeared on the Internet, never ceases to amaze with her “absolute pitch” in the field of poetry! I didn’t check specifically, perhaps a book with her poems has already been published, maybe more than one, but for me Sasha Best will forever remain a wonderful nugget, nurtured in virtual space.

Look, my lord

Look, my lord, your roses

They are blooming again.

That woman again and again

Comes here...

And the snow, my lord, is on your eyelashes

It melts treacherously...

Water on the eyelashes... because snow -

It's just water.

A sad outcome, my lord,

Of course I know...

Here is a world where daisies sway

Life in the wind.

Here is the world, where under your gaze

I always freeze.

And if you die, I'm with you,

I will undoubtedly die.

Here is the sky, look, my lord,

At sunset it turns red.

Here slowly, as if in a fairy tale,

The ships are sailing.

And meeting your gaze,

Your servants turn pale.

And they kiss your hand,

My lord, kings

And only in April

For a moment I thought:

There is a world where humbly sways

Snow in the wind.

Where is the simple pride stealthily

Followed me...

There is a world where you will die. And I…

I won't die without you!

Swallowing the smoke of cheap cigarettes

Tuning the strings on a guitar

I remembered that love and delirium

Always born into the same nightmare.

I looked at the rumpled bed

On the girl who hugged the pillow

I suddenly remembered that there was a snowstorm outside the window,

And I felt unbearably stuffy.

I lied to myself, I believed in miracles

I've seen hopes break

And how do drugs change your eyes?

And after that they don’t become the same.

And outside the window the blizzard howled again

Knocking hands on stone walls

I suddenly remembered that there is love in the world

And remembering this, I cut my wrists.

Her poems do not always contain the usual rhyme, I am not a literary critic, I don’t particularly understand poetic terms, but here you can hear the motive. A thin stream of pure water flowing in a changing rhythm. Sasha Best– this is rock in modern poetry! Live, classic rock, sounding in the heads of readers!

***

We lived on the roof, not knowing that it was dangerous

Chilled gray clouds caressed their lips

Dancing like a flame we knew the gods were beautiful

Playing like the wind we knew the gods were mighty

We fell on our faces, we prayed for the flowers to bloom

We waited for the storm, kissed the parched ground

How butterflies drank nectar from sacred acacias

And everyone believed as one that nature does not sleep

We knew about heaven no less than rain about sadness

We melted the sun, forged non-ferrous metals

We ran after the wind, without the wind we were wildly bored

Lost day after eternity, quarter after block

We took life to the fullest, and a little more

We flew under the sky, plucking frozen stars

I wanted to stay on this earth a little longer

But people came and built nests out of stone

You're boring after a wonderful ball.

The look is calm, but the fingers are trembling.

You splashed wine from your glass

On my white English jacket.

That's a bitch. Ruined the evening -

Romantic delirium for two.

Who would have known that at the first meeting,

Will you consider me yours?

Washing cold hands

In blue noble blood,

I whispered to my new friend:

"I accidentally poisoned you

Lack of love." Old and banal.

Nothing can save her.

…It’s a pity that all this did not happen to us.

“Stop” and... “Cut!” - said the director.

Any poetry cannot be liked entirely if you analyze each poem separately. There are not always strong poems; there are also those that completely “fly by.” Poetry can and should be read selectively; there is no single plot. Here, as they say, to each his own. Sasha Best– a young, modern, and at the same time not going beyond the limits of what is permitted, poetess whose talent cannot be left unnoticed!

I miss you intravenously and intramuscularly.

How are you not jealous without me? How can it not be spelled?

There is a forte sign between us, honey, listen with your fingers.

How can you not dream with absolute instinct?

Piano, honey, piano. It turned out that fire cannot be cured.

He doesn’t extinguish himself with tears, that’s enough, honey, there’s nothing!

Dominant - flash, timelessness, obsession...

Think in notes and burn the genius inside you, to hell!

Here it’s a third lower, so it’s more sensual. Very insinuating.

It's better than sex, than love... Well, let's start.

Louder, dear, louder! Hit the keys more often.

Move your nerves exactly to the beat, you will do great.

Between thoughts there is poison. Neglecting etiquette is troublesome.

The audience is standing, waiting for an encore. The spectator cries, rejoices, claps.

Kisses - legato, tenderness along the spine.

And some major with a diagnosis of a night owl

He whispers something, is out of tune, is in a hurry and gets confused.

Yes, this often happens, but it doesn’t often come true.

Take everything for yourself - this is only your applause.

Just, dear, you hear, you don’t need to poke your fingers into your soul.

Alice

“More and more strange,” Alice suddenly thought,

When she came out of the hole into the real world.

About a little lady with a naive fox-like look,

That she came out of a coma has already been tousled by the media.

“Good news - Alice Liddell has woken up” -

Newspaper headlines are screaming, TV is blaring.

And they hang a child’s portrait like a cardboard idol,

Tired of standing knee-deep in someone else's love.

In the hospital she dreams of a smiling cat and a rabbit,

Vanilla sky, broken mirrors.

Alice laughs wildly to the point of tears and colic,

Then suddenly it becomes as if death is white.

Her psychiatrist, Dr. Dodgson, flips through the chart,

He throws up his hands, saying, if only, but “alas”

She returns to a coma, to Morpheus, to Tartarus.

She doesn’t care what you call this world.

And the doctor says: “There will be no improvement,”

That in a coma, perhaps she is having colorful dreams.

Alice has been in a miracle for seventeen years,

Which her family misses so much.

Executor

Ten thousand years of breaking taboos:

You dreamed not of ruling, but of accomplishing.

You sculpted me, biting your lip,

From the transparent threads of your soul.

Somewhere at the end of bodily strength

You invented me, but why?

I didn't ask you, you know

About eyes that are brighter than any candles,

About hands that are stronger than dumb stones.

I left and wandered for many years.

Only the light that shone within me

It turned out to be glitter from your cuffs.

I came to you to lie at your feet,

Realizing the insignificance of his victories.

“How can I become myself? Perfection. How?

Teach, I pray,” I told you

And looked with love into your eyes,

In them the grass caressed its dew.

"Please don't leave me

Please finish drawing me"

So the path is written until dawn

Somewhere at the edge of my soul.

"You, me, please don't forget

Please complete me"

You stroked my head

He sighed heavily and ordered to leave.

A story about a Cat and her Man

It was built in some kind of 11th century.

Nearby lived a dazzling black cat

A cat that Man loved very much.

No, not friends. The cat just noticed him -.

She squinted a little, as if she was looking at the light.

Her heart was beating... Oh, how her heart was purring!

If, upon meeting, he quietly whispered to her: “Hello”

No, not friends. The cat just let him

Stroking yourself. She sat on her knees herself.

One day she was walking with a Man in the park

He suddenly fell. Well, the Cat suddenly went crazy.

The neighbor howled, the siren... The ambulance rushed by.

What was going on in everyone's heads?

The cat was silent. She wasn't his cat.

It just so happened that... it was her Man.

The cat was waiting. Didn't sleep, didn't drink or eat.

She meekly waited for the light to appear in the windows.

She was just sitting. And she even turned a little grey.

He will return and quietly whisper to her: “Hello”

In dusty Moscow, an old house with two stained glass windows

Minus seven lives. And minus another century.

He smiled: “Were you really waiting for me, Cat?”

“Cats don’t wait... My stupid, stupid Man”

Monologue with God

Hello! How are you? How is the family? Well, I...

Well, the first damn thing is lumpy.

But we don’t know you, my God.

That way we'll know each other.

Family? Two cats, cockroaches and me.

Yes, yes, I'm the one.

Oh, if it’s not too difficult, please,

Autograph for mom.

But what are you doing here on earth?

I died? Sadly…

I don't even know what to do now...

Maybe some tea?

And it's too late to say that someone appreciates

A taste of life's drama...

And yet, please, you cherkany

Autograph for mom.

We are made of iron, Baby

It's like salsa, baby, it's like I love you.

It's like a proud look at the extinct South.

We are from the North, baby, with hearts like bears.

"Az, Buki, Lead..."

It's like a wound, baby, you need to squeeze it harder.

We are thick-skinned. You know, they don't value things like that.

We are strange, baby is a lost feather.

"Verb, Good..."

It's like faith, baby. It's like the milky way.

Standing on the roof, you can’t bear to step off it.

We are iron, baby, we meet problems head-on.

“There, You Live, Zelo”

It's like pride, baby. It's like shocking.

Our signature Life Experience.

I'll rewind the time, just ask.

“...Izhitsa, Fita, Psi.”

The sky today did not look for reasons

The sun and wind burned with a strange thirst.

Someone said: "We met here once

Bird Girl and the Simplest Man"

We went to the cinema together and read Bach,

We laughed together at tenderness and the weather.

They honestly shared their troubles with the sea.

The sea cried with joy and fear.

People looked askance at them, and birds too.

Who invented it: Together. In public. Strange.

Beaks and noses were poked into window frames.

(People and birds, albeit in this way, are so similar.)

The pack that day did not undertake to find out the reasons.

Someone said: “We will not accept wingless ones into the flock.”

Two left. But everyone saw them take off

Bird Girl and the simplest man.

Uninvited guest

Doors are bolted, trolls on chains guard the peace.

Shoes with bells. Rats don't poke their noses out of holes.

The hostess has a guest. This means that bonfires will be lit that night.

Instead of scarlet roses in the ghostly garden there are angelica and burrs.

“What are you missing, guest? There is wine flowing here. Pour it and drink it!”

Fingers in silver, the comb drowned in black hair.

That mistress has wide hips and a tight braid.

The owner of that toad has a potion in the cauldron in her cellars.

“Hey, servant, here! Come to the guest and get some wine.

You won’t be able to go through all the forests and fields, all the roads and steppes.

There is wine flowing here. Why are you sad, guest? Pour it and drink it!”

Only the glorious guest does not eat food and does not drink wine.

“Forget your home, forget your wife, forget your children.

Hey servant, go! Light the fire and make the bed"

But in the presence of a guest, the boilers do not boil, the fires do not burn.

The lady rants: fog in her hair, a terrible roar in her throat:

“You offend me, guest, I have my heart for you, but your back is to me.

What did you come here with? Why are you silent, oh my uninvited one?”

Only the strange guest, taking off his hood, stood up from the table.

He said quietly: “What are you doing, stepsister?

How dare you break the law of the Ancient Kings?

Hey servant, here! Go to the Lady and pour some wine.”

The hostess’s hand suddenly trembled and her back hunched.

The cup is in silver, there is wine in the cup, and wine at the bottom.

The lady cries: “Please have mercy, my Lord,

You’re the Light One, brother, you’re the wise one, brother... you’re not like that!”

He moved his hand over her cheeks, over her lips:

“Everything is the same as before, right? You are dear to me, but my destiny...

Calls to honor and observe the law. Drink, my sister,

It was an order. Sorry buddy, I have to go."

All clocks are standing. This has always been the case in this castle.

Wine has been drunk. No fires are burning. The floors don't creak.

Where the palace stood, the steppe spread out, and in the steppe there was wormwood.

Lost Souls Appraiser

“Personal matter” lies on the edge of the table...

Late call... “Honey, I’m on business”

He gets ready: hat, watch, jacket...

And Darling adjusts his scarf

And he chatters that he has to come by six -

Mom will come (with an audit) to stay.

He just sighs, nods, kisses your forehead.

He thinks “it would be better if there was a tsunami... plague... flood...”

Darling has soup boiling on the stove -

An old German raincoat, black as coal,

And behind her are two luxurious gray wings.

Hide the shadow of indifference under the hood -

Property of the profession - “Darling, I’m going”

Whiskey with ice and a cigar relieve stress.

Time flows like sand and flows faster.

At home he is a wise father and a wonderful husband.

Well, for you he is an appraiser of lost souls.

Requiem for the soul

My wonderful creator created me with love,

He called me the Word and in the word there was a Soul.

He carved out my heart, it beat out a rhythm.

I kept thinking: will this knock bother me?

My beautiful creator loved me more than anyone.

Even more than the one in the red hat with a colored feather.

He wrapped me in fur, as if I were real,

He sewed dresses for me and baked jellied pie on Wednesdays.

And today, on a windless day at the end of winter,

The bell in the hallway rang and the cat meowed.

A stranger entered the house from the cool winter darkness.

My beautiful creator, who is she? Who? Who?

He looked at Her as if spring had come,

It was as if She exuded a magical light.

He turned pale, he might have been sick, and then she

She smiled warmly and openly back at him.

If I were a girl... well, completely real,

Of course, my stomach would ache.

She and I are like twins: face, hands, dress, corset...

But She didn’t APPEAR, but DEFINITELY was alive.

If I were a girl... I would lose my strength.

Fluffy snow softly melted on Her eyelashes.

My lips trembled and clenched, but I couldn’t ask.

“When you created me, did you dream about Her?”

Silver

Ringing. My heart is split.

Thunder in the middle of a clear sky:

He named his sister Gold,

Me only with Silver.

My prince, I have been devoted to you all my life

For what, radiant prince?

Why is my heart poor?

Have you trampled into the mud with a word?

I wandered through the forest all day.

I couldn't sleep all night.

Offense with a snake belt

Stifled my spring.

“Granny, dear, dear,

Grandma, how can this be?

I don't have the strength to forget.

My dream is burning.

Let my sister be happy.

I pray for her - God willing.

Let it shine like the clear sun

There's her star in the sky"

Said: “Even though I’m old

But I see another young man

Your sister wishes"

Granny laughed: “From a young age

Answer everything kindly...

Our prince, indifferent to gold,

I always chose silver.”

The Tale of Ivan the Fool and Autumn

“Listen, Ivanushka the fool,

Let Autumn kiss you warmly,

But wait a minute -

Don't follow her.

Who knows what lies ahead."

Fool Ivan did not listen to his sister.

I didn’t believe her reasonable words.

Behind the red beauty

He runs barefoot

To return her belt.

“But remember, Ivanushka the fool,

Following Autumn is a horseman with a sword.

In ancient armor

On a red horse

He follows her like a shadow.”

The fool Ivan did not listen to his sister.

After all, in autumn you feel dizzy.

He ran up to her

Pressed so hard

That there was a fire in my heart.

“Well, what have you done, Ivan the Fool?

Are you really in a hurry to die? -

The beauty laughed

And tears in my eyes

They shone like a shadow in the images.

Ivan the Fool whispered to her.

Like, a fool doesn’t even care about death.

"And even though I'm not yours,

But I'm behind you

I will go both in the cold and in the heat.”

With the look of a tired executioner.

The horseman who was silent all the time.

Suddenly he pulled out his sword

Then, to cut off

Ivanov's head off his shoulders.

And they don’t really know what happened to the day.

Some madman was wandering around like a shadow.

But there's a rumor going around

That battle was

Such that the grass turned red.

Now Autumn has passed, and Ivan has disappeared.

But somewhere I heard these words:

"In ancient armor

On a red horse

He follows her like a shadow."

Strange people

Can I get a tattoo on my heart?

Lest we forget...

The heart is a muscle, not a skin.

Therefore, it will be painful - difficult.

Let it be difficult

The main thing is that it would be forever.

So... Do you agree?

I feel a little sorry for you...

As you said…? Hot?

Yes Yes! You're right!

It's especially hot today!

After all, it’s summer...

- …late fall.

At eight o "clock? Yes! At eight, no doubt!

I have to leave at eight.

To forget along the way...

All. I finished.

It didn't hurt me at all...

Will. When you want to mix.

Or simply... simply burn it out...

Oh yes... all that remains is to survive.

Tomorrow is only Saturday

Day, and then off to work.

... drown the pain in worries.

Why am I suddenly? I have to go!

It's summer after all. Sun. Heat…

Suddenly she burst into tears. Gone.

The pain of collecting bits and pieces.

Strange people are birds.

Slow death pills

When you come I'll fall asleep on your lap

You'll give me pills for a slow death

Bogged down up to your neck in your caramel laziness.

And the check for the sale of the soul will be sent to us in an envelope

When you come, I will share a secret with you