аперитивы, лето2010

из альбома "критика чистого сердца" группы "ночные грузчики"

aperitifs

I

Life is too predictable — I guess I only live
for nothing but to see it through
besides my own experience.
But the worse I remember how it all started
the better I imagine perhaps
how it will end —

When the appetite for life disappears, you start filling up
on aperitifs. Overdrink — and everything
you’ve eaten before makes you sick.
The less you lie to yourself, the more self-loathing you get
аnd more you doubt
telling others the truth.

How to catch this fine line between yourself and everyone
so that when you’re sick
you don't accidentally hit others.
Who am I to love, believe in God, dream of salvation?
Being human is a generous, but dangerous gift —
without the usage of instructions.

Forgive me, everyone who knows — I must be causing
so much trouble. Of course, you will find this
quite funny, but I truly don’t know
how to live, and I don’t even know why.
Moreover, I don’t believe this question
can be resolved.

II

To search, to try on, to throw away, to disagree to live like
all acquaintances. Excuse me, I'll wake you up
at 4 a.m. and ask you a simple task —
"what the hell kind of math" you say and fall asleep —
and this confirms the formula only, but
I can't believe this is all life and accept it unequivocally.

To cover your ears, to occupy your hands and to make simple movements,
according to the principle of random numbers,
get a goal and plans — and only at night
stare at the ceiling, dreaming of heroic tension,
painfully turning over in mind
some Varlam Shalamov’s phrase.

Everything is different in the daytime: white top, dark bottom —
come to work in time. Minimal good as anesthesia
instead of youth and power. Confidence in the future,
and Batman’s costume is gathering dust in the closet.
Trying to get to the bottom of the truth
you can accidentally get your own grave.

Forgive me if you can I try my best to be a vermin:
to bang on the glass, to lay eggs, reflexes instead of reflection.
But I can't give up the idea this is all circus
and we’re fucking clowns. What way of living
will be deeper and more important
than the urge to get off the merry-go-round?


sumr2010

I

I laid too many hopes on this summer —
suffocate in Moscow, throw full metre in the shredder,
bask instead of Basque country in foreign dachas,
counting change on the trolleybus instead of passing the driving test.
Thought big changes were in store?
You’ve just moved from the northeast to the north zone,
changed “Nominal” goods to goods at the red price,
and you’ve seen the Ostankino Tower from the other side.
To look out for blue shirts near the subway,
to wait until the end of the draft, and then get off with vitiligo,
to take any job, a sitcom for the “Domashniy” channel —
look at me: I’m writing the “Women's League”.
I escape from the stuffiness and insomnia to a pond
with yellow-toothed inmates and wetbacks with warm vodka,
and topless old ladies and their shaggy dogs.
Do you remember how we cried together, and then went to the Rothko?

This burning summer dried us to the very nerves.
We can't go home, pay the bills, get your tooth fixed,
I started drinking more often, and you started going to church,
we're waiting for this fall even more than last spring.

Pigeons fall from the sky — in the morning, cleaners sweep them
away with the dry leaves of the summer of 2010.
I kiss you through cheesecloth, standing on the escalator,
which carries us into the swelt of the summer of 2010.
While it’s possible to hug you until the clocks strike 6 a.m.
and you won't burn down in the arms of the summer of 2010.


II

I quickly, almost automatically fill out the questionnaire —
they'll call me back, says the head of HR.
I sit for a few more minutes in the cold air,
and then come out into the sweltering summer like hell.
Peat bogs are burning — there is no space in the morgues.
It’s nonsense to wear this mask, so I'm choking on smoke
and can't see the other end of the platform.
Spending fifty minutes on the suburban train, you're deathly warm.
They didn't call back. The air smears me across the flat,
to each limb a weight of ten thousandth debt.
You're getting ready for work, kissing me after a sticky gin,
as if you're letting me stay and waste your oxygen.
I haven't read a single page this summer.
They say it'll drop down to plus 32 next Sunday,
but every boundary is violated, such a foolishness —
my mind falls into sleep and my heart no longer believes.

Ads on the screen melt, I'm blacklisted:
not finding a job, leaving is just another losing strategics.
At the station, you feel the warning of the near end is true.
Suffocating, regretting that I didn't stay to meet it with you.

Pigeons fall from the sky — in the morning, cleaners sweep them
away with the dry leaves of the summer of 2010.
While it’s possible to hug you until the clocks strike 6 a.m.
and you won't burn down in the arms of the summer of 2010.
I kiss you through cheesecloth, standing on the escalator,
which carries us into the swelt of the summer of 2010.