Для Икар Монгольфье Райт
It's a Tuesday evening
and I feel there's something wrong.
Is it a crack on a ceiling
or simply things not in places they belong?
Does my watch go too fast
or the knot on my bow-tie too strong?
My typewriter is covered with dust
and my underwear was not washed for so long,
my T-bone steak is in a microwave
'cause I no longer have stimulus to be a vegetarian.
my lustful thoughts need to have a shave
my landlord has become barbarian,
'cause I don't pay my weekly fee
and at night I sigh too loud,
the double-glazed world is all I see
while hearing the TV shout.
I have postcards on the walls
and a tin antique ring on a thread
and the strange unrest awful, awful, crawls
bites my neck and turns into dread.
I forgot how this word is spelled.
It is poured on the streets
and stuck in the certain picture frame
it is lost between the sheets
and the wind cries this familiar name.
it is insomniac, pretensions and silly
it festers and then gets swelled
it makes living rotten and chilly.
And every time I look at the photo
something inside me is turning
it might be a sickness creeping slow
or just an ordinary November yearning.