Lyrics Женя Свищёв - В уютных комнатах покоятся минуты - Ласпи
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В уютных комнатах покоятся минуты
и, западом приветствуя восток,
мою невесту, как покойницу, берут и
пускают, словно яблоню, на сок.
В уютных комнатах обрывки фотографий,
тень юности, и брошенный дурак,
ища ушедшую, обнюхивает кафель
и, морщась, исподлобья смотрит, как
с неё сочилось и в глазах, и между ножек,
те соки ароматными нашли
и справились без скатерти и ложек
минуты. Не першит и не тошнит.
Хватаю тень, её шагреневую кожу –
минувшее привычнее любить –
и оборачиваю ей себя и ношу
из незабытых удовольствий и обид.
Одним смирением не станешь сыт, покуда
потерянным до крайности не сыт.
Идя по юности, не смотришь вниз, как-будто
она всесильна, и не тикают часы.
Когда ночуешь с ней, невольно засыпаешь,
как-будто она вечно будет тут,
как-будто, к стенке отвернувшись, продлеваешь
её хождение по лезвиям минут.
В уютных комнатах покоятся невесты,
на запад ковыляют дураки,
и в циферблатное кольцо врастает место
на безымянном выжатой руки.
Ласпи
На лобике щенячьем белая полоска –
мой кулуар меж двух ушей:
укрылся мягким снегом, хранящим отголоски
лавины, что сошла уже.
Четыре блеклой охрой вписанные лапы
в грудную клетку, в розовый живот –
мой берег тёплый, бухта Ласпи,
экватор погнутых широт…
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Minutes rest in cozy rooms
and, west welcoming east,
my bride, as a deceased, is taken and
let, like an apple tree, on the juice.
In the cozy rooms there are scraps of photos,
the shadow of youth, and the fool,
looking for the departed, sniffs at the tile
and, grimacing, looking under her brows,
with it oozed both in the eyes and between the legs,
those juices are fragrant found
and managed without tablecloths and spoons
minutes Not nagging and not sick.
Grab a shadow, its shagreen skin -
the past is more familiar to love -
and wrap myself around her and wear
from unforgotten pleasures and offenses.
One will not be full of humility, as long as
lost to the extreme not fed.
Going through adolescence, you do not look down, as if
she is omnipotent, and the clock is not ticking.
When you spend the night with her, you involuntarily fall asleep,
as if she will forever be here,
as if turning away from the wall, you extend
her walking on the blade minutes.
Brides rest in cozy rooms,
fools to the west,
and a place grows in the dial ring
on an unmarked squeezed hand.
Laspi
On the forehead puppy white strip -
my couloir between two ears:
covered with soft snow that echoes
avalanche that had already gone.
Four faded ocher paws
in the chest, in the pink belly -
my shore is warm, Laspi bay,
equator of bent latitudes ...
Minutes rest in cozy rooms
and, west welcoming east,
my bride, as a deceased, is taken and
let, like an apple tree, on the juice.
In the cozy rooms there are scraps of photos,
the shadow of youth, and the fool,
looking for the departed, sniffs at the tile
and, grimacing, looking under her brows,
with it oozed both in the eyes and between the legs,
those juices are fragrant found
and managed without tablecloths and spoons
minutes Not nagging and not sick.
Grab a shadow, its shagreen skin -
the past is more familiar to love -
and wrap myself around her and wear
from unforgotten pleasures and offenses.
One will not be full of humility, as long as
lost to the extreme not fed.
Going through adolescence, you do not look down, as if
she is omnipotent, and the clock is not ticking.
When you spend the night with her, you involuntarily fall asleep,
as if she will forever be here,
as if turning away from the wall, you extend
her walking on the blade minutes.
Brides rest in cozy rooms,
fools to the west,
and a place grows in the dial ring
on an unmarked squeezed hand.
Laspi
On the forehead puppy white strip -
my couloir between two ears:
covered with soft snow that echoes
avalanche that had already gone.
Four faded ocher paws
in the chest, in the pink belly -
my shore is warm, Laspi bay,
equator of bent latitudes ...