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My life, like a rocket, makes a parabola flying in darkness, no rainbow for traveler. There
once lived an artist, red-haired Gauguin, he
was a bohemian, a former tradesman. To
get to the Louvre from
the lanes of Montmartre he
circled around as
far as Sumatra! He
had to abandon the madness of money, the
filth of the scholars, the snarl of his honey. The
man overcame the terrestrial gravity, The
priests, drinking beer, would laugh at his «vanity»: «A
straight line is short, but it is much too simple, Hed
better depict beds of roses for people.» And
yet, like a rocket, he flew off with ease through
winds penetrating his coat and his ears. He
didnt fetch up to the Louvre through the door but,
like a parabola, pierced
the floor! Each
gets to the truth with his own parameter a
worm finds a crack, man makes a parabola. There
once lived a girl in the neighboring house. We
studied together, through books we would browse. Why
did I leave, moved
by devilish powers amidst
the equivocal Georgian
stars! Im
sorry for making that silly parabola, The
shivering shoulders in darkness, why trouble her?... Your
rings in the dark Universe were dramatic, and
like an antenna, straight and elastic. Meanwhile
Im flying to
land here because I
hear your earthly and shivering calls. It
doesnt come easy with a parabola!.. For
wiping prediction, tradition, preamble off Art,
History, Love and Àesthetics Prefer to
take parabolical paths, as it were! He
leaves for Siberia now, on a visit. .............................................................................. It
isnt so long as parabola, is it? |
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| There
is Bukashkin, our neighbor, in
underpants of blotting paper, and,
like balloons, the Antiworlds hang
up above him in the vaults. Up
there, like a magic daemon, he
smartly rules the Universe, Antibukashkin
lies there giving Lollobrigida
a caress. The
Anti-great-academician has
got a blotting paper vision. Long
live creative Antiworlds, great
fantasy amidst daft words! There
are wise men and stupid peasants, there
are no trees without deserts. Therere
Antimen and Antilorries, Antimachines
in woods and forests. Theres
salt of earth, and theres a fake. A
falcon dies without a snake. I
like my dear critics best. The
greatest of them beats the rest for
on his shoulders theres no head, hes
got an Antihead instead. At
night I sleep with windows open and
hear the rings of falling stars, From
up above skyscrapers drop and, like
stalactites, look down on us. High
up above me upside down, stuck
like a fork into the ground, my
nice light-hearted butterfly, my
Antiworld, is getting by. I
wonder if its wrong or right that
Antiworlds should date at night. Why
should they sit there side by side watching
TV all through the night? They
do not understand a word. Its
their last date in this world. They
sit and chat for hours, and they
will regret it in the end! The
two have burning ears and eyes, resembling
purple butterflies... ...A
lecturer once said to me: «An
Antiworld? Its loonacy!» Im
half asleep, and I would sooner believe
than doubt the mans word... My
green-eyed kitty, like a tuner, receives
the signals of the world. |
