DEATH OF A SECRETARY GENERAL OR BAUM AMENDMENT (fucking poem) PREAMBLE, fucking ... Why is this? What is it?? Like this?! The word is in the name - and out loud to say obscene. And how to do without it? Without it - fresh, dry and short. No, I understand that everything depends on the approach, on the attitude, on the structure of the soul, so to speak. This is if, for example, someone comes to the editor and something brings. They ask him - in the official order - they say who you are, and he answers: “The poet.” They say to him: “So-ak, poet-et ... Well, well, what did they bring?” And imagine him replies: “I brought a fucking poem.” - “?? !! ... What kind of a poem is this with the prefix“ fucking ”? This poem does not suit us! ”That is, you see - a complete failure.

But if otherwise imagine the situation. Here are two people sitting, drinking somewhere in the middle of the Middle Russian Plain, or on Brighton, or there in the Beer-Sheva kitchen. And here arises between them in pairs of port-hangers mooing such a conversation: “Well, you, you are a poet, are you?” - “Pa-ae-et ...” - “Well-u ... and this ... and what are you writing? ”-“ Well, there are poems there ... poems ... ”-“ Poe-emas, fucking ?! ”-“ Yes, fucking poems. ”And they shut up. And this silence is sacred, as if some mystery here it was accomplished. No, but what? According to Pasternak’s postulate on poetry with prose, we find poetry here. This is just some kind of catharsis, damn it! Enlightenment! Interpenetration of the speaker and hearer. mooing talk, not transferable.

And this is a short word - out of three, as you deign to see, of letters - it is no longer a noun, but an interjection. But the interjection, which prevailed in itself the whole essence of the noun, all its phonemes and family. And, as it were, which had already gone beyond the limits of the tongue, and - which had become the salt of the tongue. Its bitter salt. And this salt tells moo both awe, and bitterness, and pride.

That is, a poem is one thing. And, fuck, a poem is already, gentlemen, a completely different thing. This, if you will, at the trial, fucking, is the last word - before stepping straight into the abyss.

As for “it’s obscenely loud”, what’s been happening on deaf nights in the kitchen at the edge of an inconceivable life is not for recitations and various other profanations. This is only for cherished toilet walls and for our aching hearts.

Sincerely yours and pity. Author.

"The days were foggy, strange: across Russia ... a poisonous October passed with an icy gait."

(A. Bely, "Petersburg") * * *

They stifle me, these damn memories, make me wander and choke with anguish, and choke with tears. Everything is long gone, and they are crawling - from other dimensions, from these matte and still warm spaces, to which the entrance is ordered to me, from which only that which now creeps and strangles remains. Ah, it would seem that there was something to remember: the abyss of the periphery of the Russian and the gloom of the suffocating seventies, when everything was kept in custody. (Except in ... Except in water, of course) Yes, autumn ... Damned autumn is Vanino's favorite time.

There is a song like this: “Do you remember that port of Vanin ...” And I will sing to you, I will sing to you: “Do you remember vanin's autumn?” That is, I will tell you a poem about the death of General and Vanya. over Vanilla in the fall, over all life of that time, immersed in the suffocating twilight, reigned - Face. Face as a face - and still familiar to many, as if the face of some family member. forever - something old, stupid, something so bureaucratic that it seemed that the human face had forgotten and had not been completely man. ”Indeed, this Person was a masked mask of the Kingdom - the Kingdom of Material Idea. The Kingdom made a terrible Person. The Kingdom lasted for a year and a year, continued without changing at all - with the same Person, with the same mumble. lasted so long that the Person has already become, as it were, a part of Russian nature, as if a chronic, serious and incurable disease.So, if it happened when she was cured of it, it would seem to everyone that such a most wonderful miracle would be true that they would have been waiting for something like this - if heaven fell on the earth, or if there was a free distribution of alcohol. In how far I could not believe that the Face would disappear.

But the Providence of God - that he conjectures miserable human minds! Already in the air, something was worn, along with the leaves, something was worn, breaking into the piercing distance of autumn, into the tension of space - life is unbearable! Mortality!

And Vanya - that morning, perhaps, the only one in the world - it hurt the whole skin with his own. With every Ivanov step, it was given to the sick head, with every bout of conscience in the dirt, humiliating, pushing, with every muddy wave of nausea with the head covered Ivan. This is life intolerance, mortality!

And Vanya ... Uh-uh ... And by the way, let me ask you if you ever woke up in the morning after a hangover scandal? BUT? That's it.

O my sinful, my gentle, my rudely awakened Vanya! He woke up on that gloomy morning with a hangover, and under the dome of the skull — hollow, huge — the scandal of yesterday’s screams echoed. And he got up from the sofa, where the young was otselennom wife, in her eyes without looking. And he went to the toilet under the hiss of an angry mom and dad, hiding pain, hiding fear in your bleeding aching heart. They did not love him so much, and he loved them so much - his young wife, his mother, and his father. And not even drinking tea, just a tooth ... only brushing his teeth and squeezing them harder, he rushed away from this terrible yellow house, where they cruelly abused him, where they were lying down - they beat him and kicked him. He rushed away — straight into the piercing distance of autumn, into the tension of space: autumn was all tensed up and leaned forward, and, unable to withstand the slow torture of this expectation, it all progressed toward the white numbing pain. Thinned maple trees thoughtfully, staring into the gray sky, and with themselves spoke indistinctly with tongues of crimson quivering leaves. Vanya diagonally crossed the thoughtfulness of the bitter parks. And threatened and smacked in the heart: "Something must happen!"

And - what I will tell you - if Vanya was a Freudian, oh (!), Then he would have easily built a chain of conclusions, where the link would fit to the link, leaving no slits even in doubt and misunderstanding. That is, at once everything would become clear and clear - all the reasons and other fucking things all the time - for the day before yesterday Ivan did not get up. We will not judge him strictly - it happens.

So I say that if Vanya were a Freudian, everything would have been easily explained. For Freud - he digs deep. Below the belt, Rogue, digs, delving into the innermost secrets of the squirrel. And now a person puts on a jacket like a condom and enters a regular bus, as if entering a place where they usually enter a condom.

And what about the case with Vanya? Here he drank wine on another, that is, day. Why did you drink wine? Was it bitter to him? Was it a shame? Well, of course. But it's not that. The origins are not that. And the sources are that the day before yesterday, having spoiled himself in front of his wife, Ivan was disappointed in his man’s, that is, in the beginning, and subconsciously that way, turned to another beginning - we are all androgynous! Ivan turned to his essence of the moon, to his essence of women and he drank wine, as if taking a seed in himself. (Oh, do not laugh, do not laugh! Wine - what is not seed? It also fertilizes. It generously gives a good harvest, moisturizing insane greedy souls) That would be if Vanya was a Freudian.

But our Vanya was not a Freudian and he did not think about such a seed. Just life surrounded, strangling Ivan, dragging into the dips of the grayish tangled everyday life. And not to get out of this abyss, no - the sheer slippery cliffs of the earthly structure hang, and should Ivan overcome them! And it seemed that he could. And at first it seemed that sdyuzhit. And without a low eye ...