"Мне всё кажется, что на мне штаны скверные, и что я пишу не так, как надо, и что даю больным не те порошки. Это психоз, должно быть." А. П. Чехов
For D. and S. N.
What This Is All About
All is never enough.
And tomorrow never knocks.
And neurosis pretends to laugh.
And we are driving and I count her locks.
And the door is never open.
And never closed.
And my land is for no man.
And I am restless and dozed.
And the promised land is never home.
At least for me.
And my arrival flight is never to Rome.
And nothing and no one is free.
And the page is white and darkness is too light.
And I am the sea when it dries out.
And when I strike I'm always on the right.
And I can get drunk on her tales and stout.
And I don't look back but I attempt.
And the attempts never count.
And I'd love to but I can't tempt.
And my family's falls are on my account.
And no one comes. (Please, please.)
And no one calls or answers.
And I wanna be teased and be a tease.
And I gonna go mad and have all the cancers.
And I am with you and I am alone.
And I need her, but she needs her needs.
And can someone throw me a bone.
And can I cut my belly so it bleeds.
And I am wrong and you know that I'm right.
And I want to leave you and sever.
And she is my Auden's song and noon and midnight.
And this is it and this is forever.