* * * Today doesn't change anything We speedily loose our hair, we slowly drink. Today in the street there is a terrible smell. Something smells rotten as hell. We take off our pants but keep out hats on. We turn off the light but start a fire. Out in the street - can't breathe 'cause of the smell. Say, where is this stench coming from? It seems to me somewhere         a big egg is rotting... All we dream of is rediculous, But we allowed each other to dream. We were waiting for coming of an incredible bird, Whose flight was a thing of speed and beauty. We thought our fairy tale was coming to life, And everything else - funny and old, Our bird would open its powerful wings, And maybe drop a feaver into our hands. The whole world would be in awe of the feavery wonder. The whole world, surprised, would look up... And now this stench is completely everywhere, Now this stench is absolutely everywhere, It seems like somere         a big egg is rotting.

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Funeral of the Jester See: paws of the trees gnaw on my hands. Hot raisin of candles drips on my shirt. Amidst the noisy ball jesters die, of boredom, To the laughter of court lakeys and the executioner's sigh. Little horse lazily drags itself along the snow. Today my jester's bells are silent. I'm claustrophobic in the cozy box of my private coffin. I wanna smoke - nobody'd give me a cigarette. Gloomy little priest has a swollen cheek. He's dragging out the "blessed departed". Demian the carpenter who made my burial cross, Is drunk as usual, of course - no, look, he's sober... The vagabond actor took off his mask. The fearless major took off his cask. The veiled lady is swollen from tears. Howling sadly is dog with torn ears. Hey, priest, why don't you prey for some saving! Hey, lady, what are you endlessly leaking? Right in front of your eyes this boring and tedious drama Is easily turned into a new little joke! I'll raise from the dead! That ought to make you laugh. Just like that - I don't want to die and that's all. Bring here a keg of rare, smooth laughter! We'll drink and bite into some crunchy, tangy words. In the priest's lamp - foams lager. His swollen cheek is all better by now. And Demian's dancing with my burial cross. The actor's mixed some alcohol into his make-up jar. The fearless major's drinking shot after shot. And the veiled lady is frenching the happy dog. Paws of the trees want to lick my hands But I burn then in fire born of the candle-ends. Who the hell told you that jesters die of boredom? Ring, my bells! Work, bastards, no silence! With red wine I wrote a note to Death. My reasons for not showing up - I got drunk. Can't go drunk! Twice some imps on duty showed up to get me. The third time they stayed and got trashed. At midnight, the blind crone herself came for me. Flashed her skythe and sternly said - "It's Time!" But I came and yelled in her ear such things, Her bones shook with laughter 'till morning. Little priest sings in his sleep. Carpenter's curled up on the planks of my cross. Major and actor are snoring in time. Lady and dog are nowhere in sight. In front of the fire the crone was giggling still, But I stood up and sternly said - "It's Time."

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On Life of Poets Poets live. Must go on living. Life believing the pen, like truth in first draft. Poets leave their name to the world, Since what's on others' minds - is on Their tongue. But it's harder and harder to stay a saint-picture the size if a small weekly salary. In the place where according to licenses everything's in place. God help them through seven circles of the restless tune, Through clean sheats of paper, where nobody speaks. Poet washes words, turning them into omens. He lifts the full buckets of his attentive eyes. Poor life! She loves him to death. And measures for him what's enough for a seven of him. And cuts.. How freely they sing. And breathe so fully.. with one foot in the grave. Holy water mixed with the bareness of Dead water. Don't cry when seven circles of the restless tune Ripple the water over his beautiful, wild head. These blue-collar angels don't even fit in. What's born of a pen, can't be ever cut out, not even with daggers. In this world, poets leave three drops of blood at the end of each line... They keep on to the end. And don't dare sream after then "No, don't!" God.. doesn't lie breaking his mirrows. Once more, seven circles of the restless tune Look into his mouth from the black eye of a gun. Bareley standing from tears and laughing from happiness, coming forever around to his endless quest. Hard to live with. However, easy to bury. And then we'll see how good they look amidst flowers. Don't trust the end. But don't wait for a different fate. What was it along the way? Money, things.. No matter, seven circles of the restless tune Let him walk, at last, on water. So now, you - a poet.. soul hangs on to this life by a thred. You took the oath, made the choice, broke the seal. We can forget all who sang not as well as they could. But lets not forgive them who where silent. Nail him to the cross, and back again to Pontius Pilot. You can't get him with confinement or poverty. Short life. Seven circles of the restless tune. Poets keep moving. And leave us, going on to the eighth.

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Through the propeller! Hand on my shoulder. Stamp on my wing. In the barracks of problems - washday. Soaked notebook. I know why I walk this Earth. It'll be easy to fly away. In three minutes - big dance party for the wax figures. At quoter-off - death. From seven torn skins - a shred of wool. How much do I want to live? No less than to sing. Tie my life into a knot. Cold April. Hot dreams. And the viruses of new notes in my blood. And every victim of the nearest war Is laughing and craving for love. Our family doctor warms up his sun-syringe. And needles of rays again will find our blood. No, don't cry. Sit and watch, Love pouring from my throat. Catch it with your mouth. Glasses overflow. Drain the song of rocket-explosion to the bottom. And the poster of the last spring Is hanging in the square of the window. Hole in the head. Blind hordes. Undersand, it's never too late to take off your armor. Kissing the chunk of trophy ice I quietly walk to the fire. We're bastards of rats. We're adopted by birds. And every one of us - 1/3 bullet shell. Lie down and watch the automic prince Who carries his wip to the throne. Don't cry. Don't pity. Who would we pity? You and me, we ourselves are orphans. Well? Don't fear! Lets fly! Through the propeller! Everything through the propeller!

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