Столько я наверное ни одно стихотворение не переписывала.
Это первое стихотворение по текстам Лис зимой, которое я целенаправленно выкладываю в свой дневник, и отнюдь не потому что я считаю, что это стихотворение как-то особенно получилось, а получилось оно довольно средним на мой вкус, а потому что the has come. Все просто. И да, мой стиль поломался и собрался по осколкам в что-то совершенно другое. Или же нет. Я пока в собственной камере обскура и на все смотрю изнутри.
Так или иначе, стихотворение написано_по_мотивам "Скажи мне, что я здесь" Всем, кто не читал - очень советую.
Лис, надеюсь, что ты не будешь недовольна из-за количества отсебятины.
Кстати, в стихотворении спрятаны пасхалки из самого "Скажи мне, что я здесь" и, неожиданно, одна из "Терапии".
Me and Another Playing in Hay
We are two boys playing on the hill in hay
We are two boys plundering, committing atrocities, swearing, spitting
and clinging to each other and watching the dusk in dismay
Such a successful babysitting -
robbing the lapwings' nest,
cracked eggs, small downy chests,
oh spotted shell (you sewn it up in my pillow) and sweet unrest,
dead birds - reward for our forest quests.
A girl
With the face
Her mind is a three hundred miles deep down sea pearl
With nearly no blots of acid or gel or face-powder or disgrace
And resolute manners of a suffragette who didn't note
or who adores being society's scapegoat
or who is forgotten to be told
that women has a right to vote
Well, kid, you know that you should stop this amok right away
My mommy says that it spoils the appetite
But am I not a boy who is buried in fresh, prickly hay?
No, brother-mine, your age commands you to come out to the daylight
to gambol to the last
to somersault in grass
to yelp like all in a civil middle-class
but not to think and doubt like a some disgusting outcast
Skyscrapers are so high
They make the sky bleed
My brother is a gigantic, kafkaesque magpie
He has the effrontery to say that you don't exist indeed
don't listen to him; he has always been our local dictator
with a silicon beak. You change the topic as a true mediator
- night keeps so much darkness in it, I add later:
- yes, but mine is greater
It turned up to be pretty hard to deal with life
That was put in and torn by the shredder
Why can't we again be two boys in hay buried in strife
Why can't we again hold our hands and take a header
Why when I shut my eyes and under my shut lids
watch how I shut my eyes, watching under my shut lids
how I shut my eyes, watching under my shut lids
how I shut my eyes...
That girl
She is the guest of brother-mine in a whitewashed smock
I swirl
oh my that injection really hurt why they dont open when me knock
"When someone who cares is met by the one -
The one should snatch him as an award that he has just won
But there is one tiny knot that once will come undone -
The one will always know that another desires to run"
(from "The Book of the Forgotten, Dissolute & Scandalous Fundamental Truths", Homer The Slut, Cambridge University Press, 20∞
Yesternight I cut my pillow with my brother's claw
Then my room and head and hands were all covered in feather
...lapwings's feathers? Their gory tones still keep me in awe
But no, wait, where is the shell? Or you want me to come to the end of my tether?
my need in you should make you real
or are you under an evil, absurd seal?
could you be fixed then by some high ordeal?
could we again be two boys playing in hay on the hill?