Для  Dva-Stula.

A Hitchhiker's Guide To You

Can I hitchhike to your heart
or is it a form of prostitution?
Can I drive the miles that keep us apart
and reach the point of fusion?

Hustling with an empty backpack
with a toothbrush and a sunscreen
groaning and crouching like a hunchback
scratching my thighs 'cause of the lack of hygiene
Fishing for your tears & laughs
no stops, no roadsigns, no traffic lights
just a fishing rod and my love of the calfs
beware: it slobbers, never bites.

Your shoulders under my arms
are darkness
resting beneath me. No harm
you are, but my harness.

You look like a senile drunken lady.
No. Even like a senile drunken man,

like someone my mummy won't invite for tea,
like Charlie Sheen before rehab.
Tonight you bought me junk food
I gave you antiseptic
you smelt of honey, fags and oud -
lovely-scathingly even for a sceptic.

If you are and you are Janus-faced,
I am a Martian with a humble, human glaze.
But the words are plastic and waste;
if I am just me. And you are you. Always -

If I am a homeless swishing
then you're my grave of cement.
If my brains go fishing,
you are my endarkenment.