Lyrics Записки на Теле - Дни меланхолии

* * * Monday. I'm leaving * * *

Monday morning, steps erase the cobblestones of an old, central street.
A woman with a stroller, in a hurry, cramped, an old man with an outstretched hand slouch.
The time is specified by the ringing of two bells with an interval of a tenth of a second.
The sun, with all its generosity, gives the sensation of dying fresh flesh.

Pedestrian crossings are subject to broken traffic lights, the bands have been erased for years.
Feet glide on hot asphalt, towards faded, living houses.
The bridge meanders like a hunchbacked old man, a spent turner, a World War veteran.
The telephone "good morning", the bones with a creak give in to the desires of the dark side.

* * * Tuesday. I exist * * *

I suddenly felt my right foot wrapped in a fresh asphalt cloth.
The heat is thirty degrees with faded colors of shop signs of various trash.
Passers-by swim in their inner world, relying on the handrails of the formed points of view.
Trying to idealize my life under the canons of fashion magazines, which I look with contempt.

Exhibition centers are crammed with paintings by contemporary artists and sculptors in their twenty.
Hipster girls with boys under the arm, artistic bohemia in the spring of the thirteenth.
Blood loss of open wounds, pallor of the skin resembles a slow killing.
Existentialist children lie in filled bathtubs with blackened eyes, numb.

* * * Wednesday. Tone. * * *

The sea is filled with the smack of time frayed, drowned bones.
Bloodthirsty gulls sit on the pier looking for an idea.
People rub tires on the asphalt, warming the shell of the path.
The clock is ticking, the minutes dissolve in seconds, the mechanisms rot on the inside.

The grass is trampled by other people's tracks, the wind walks, tearing through the bodies of the desperate.
Birds without wings, a three-legged kitten froze watching the steam from the teapot.
The linen on the rope no longer sways in the wind, the colors spread out in the warm rays.
Sandboxes are filled with material void, children no longer build sandcastles.

* * * Thursday. I am already 23. * * *

I have already turned twenty-three in the twelfth, with sadness comes awareness.
Life flows through its flowing rivers, in search of the sources of mutual understanding.
Yesterday's twenty-three pages filled the mind with the demagogy of its existence.
I was sick of Sartre, his pages of a closed, read novel from me.

We did not agree, the epochs shared the handshakes of wrinkled, flabby fingers.
I was too young, handsome at eighteen, he was already an old man and a sufferer.
I was sick of people, senseless suffering, love affairs and self-medication.
He waited for a meeting with the virgin, who taunted, destroying the soil for love promises.

* * * Friday. Living Dead. * * *

I’m alive, I’m dead, I’m finished, the ridge passed by the wheel of life.
The muscles no longer feel pain, torn by the tissue that is wrapped around the skeleton.
In a wooden box there are two windows and four dense, riveted faces.
A lone poet, a lone tram, takes the dead from the city for exile.

Atrophied tightly, the brain is degrading, the heart does not feel other people's flesh.
The old quarter is crumbling, dead souls fill the morgue, and then to the obituary.
Black biomass in mourning rivers adrift towards untouched pastures.
Roads were blocked, crows settled in, the city turned into a living cemetery.