канатоходцы едят мясо кошек, чтобы не переломать себе кости

megalomaniac in shavasana

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to Sylvia Plath

the sirens were crying loud in my
open window: someone's in pain,
someone's probably dead, and here am I dying
of boredom at school somewhen in mid-May.

my classmate hangs over me (his breath
smells of chocolate, milk and smoke):
have you even seen death?
let's go
I'll show you a nice dead dog.

there we stand above the ragged
dog body, and one should probably cry.
but I am staring at how in his ruptured belly
new universes ari-

there stirs fussily fractured womb and now
it's more alive than in olden days,
humidly falls the wound of sundown
to our spasmodic face-

swarming party in dog's utero hiss-
es, his abdomen is really crowded,
when I am getting in my sunsetted lips
my first kiss
over the rotting dog body.

classmate is giving me that very grip,
the dog putrefies under the first lights,
under my jacket and school uniform deep
inside a new heart rise-

outside the siren is singing flat:
someone's irretrievably sick which is meaning
that he'll eventually start from scrat-
ch his being.

or he won't cause in nineties at 2 am
there're no starts or ends, and any
life will end after all quite the same –

it's been thousand years since, and I'd re-act,
but the heart is no longer on.
the dead dog universe collapses to black
and won't return.


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