Русский паркур / Russian parkour. Евгений Типайлов

Чтение книги онлайн.

      I’ve always talked, before and now,

      My tongue has baked the verbal dough,

      I’ve cooked up showy monologs

      And written spicy posts for blogs.

      I want your attention, I claim it,

      I offer my innermost plainly.

      Brief, like the Rubaiyat’s lines,

      Or in endless receding rhymes.

      I want to start a verbal fight

      For what I still believe is right.

      Tik Tok – around the clock,

      Run Lola run – through Instagram,

      A videoblog – forget Pushkin and Blok,

      Inner world – behind a password.

      Pop art, pop music, pop up ads

      Are on the line that never ends.

      Thoughts are compressed, expressed, suppressed,

      While feature films are in regress.

      While Ernst is serious about

      Making TV a knockabout,

      The viewers seek an endless hype

      And Peter Piper plays his pipe.

      Image is everything there is,

      Unreal and fleeting like a whiz.

      Tik Tok – around the clock,

      Run Lola run – through Instagram,

      A videoblog – forget Pushkin and Blok,

      Inner world – behind a password.

      A million little devils laugh

      At what their net presents as gaffe.

      We thoughtlessly accept a fake,

      They make – we eat, they give – we take.

      Can I oppose my sound mind

      To tons of bullshit unrefined?

      Can anyone still hear my words

      Through nonsense fed by million cords?

      I feel like swearing every time

      I read or hear a crooked line.

      Tik Tok – around the clock,

      Run Lola run – through Instagram,

      A videoblog – forget Pushkin and Blok,

      Inner world – behind a password.

      No password’s safe for someone cunning,

      And Lola’s selfie is always running.

      Social racists on the rise

      Awaiting our next demise.

      Connected to an SNS,

      You’re separated from the rest:

      From land, from history and bonds,

      Dependent on the net’s response.

      Revolt against this new dependence!

      The wounded truth deserves a vengeance.

      Мысль моя материальна,

      Покалечить могут словá,

      И в погоне за идеальным

      Тяну щуку из небытия.

      Обуревают меня эмоции,

      И кипит пока ещё кровь;

      Мне – как ледоруб для Троцкого —

      Безучастная чья-то бровь!

      Подстригу покороче волосы,

      Прокричу погромче ура!

      И скажу петербургским голосом:

      «Выползай поскорее, Ра!»

      Это что-то иррациональное,

      Живущее между мной и мной,

      Древнее, матриархальное,

      Будоражащее мой покой.

      Диском старого телефона

      Щёлкает в сердце искрá,

      «Соедините меня с Афоном!» —

      Шепчет моя душа.

      «Какая-то несуразица», —

      Скажете мне, друзья?!

      Но какая в общем-то разница?!

      Волга дальше течёт река…

      Докурю свою сигаретку,

      Самокрутку из русских букв,

      Да положу стихов табакерку

      В карман своих лучших брюк!

      Material thoughts,

      Words hurt more than swords,

      Irrational things

      Between myself and me.

      I boil and smolder

      At someone’s cold shoulder,

      Or I get a chill:

      Indifference kills.

      I’ll shave off my hair

      And shout ‘hurray’.

      I’ll hunt the ideal,

      My aim is unreal.

      I’ll go for a run

      To Petersburg sun.

      I’ll reach the unknown,

      I’ll dial a phone,

      ‘Mount Athos, over!’

      I’m a restless rover.

      I puzzle my friends,

      But frankly, who cares?

      An innate unrest

      That won’t be suppressed.

      An urge to connect

      To world architect.

      In my pocket lies

      A snuffbox of lines;

      Snapped in my smile —

      A СКАЧАТЬ