Igor Guberman Gariki for every day. Igor gubermangariki for every day Guberman the best about life

Dedicated to Yuli Kitaevich, my beloved friend, the author of many of my poems

The flesh is fading.

Dust evaporates.

The years have gone

for a slow dinner.

And it's nice to think

what was it anyway

and someone even needed it.

I feel sorry for Marx: his legacy

fell into a Russian font:

here the end justifies the means,

and the means beat the end.

For the benefit of the hegemonic class,

so that he reigns relentlessly,

at any moment available to shmona

individual hegemon.

The layer of man in us is a little bit

layered unsteadily and anxiously;

it is easy to return us to the cattle,

it's very hard to get back up.

Forever we erected a monument

madness, ruin and loss,

by experimenting with blood

brought negative results.

I am young, in the remnants of snot,

I'm afraid, shaking life like a pear:

in their souls it is dark, as in the ass,

and in the ass - itching to amuse the soul.

crushing, crushing and crushing,

fear reproduces itself

grows and feeds itself.

When history bleeds

whistles to souls and powers,

one - a slug crawls into a hole,

the other is swollen with a boa constrictor.

Good, not rejecting the means of evil,

on them and reaps the results;

in a paradise where resin is applied,

archangels are hoofed and horned.

When fear swirls pitch

and the barking of chases pierces the darkness,

blessed is anyone who dares

do not blow out the fire in yourself.

Provided with a common phrase,

hostile to life and nature,

with lack of freedom, scum and evil spirits

freer to become a shepherd.

Freedom, looking impartially,

then only becomes necessary,

when there is space inside of me

larger than the outer chamber.

By blood penetrating to the roots,

piercing the air of the sky,

bondage corrupts us more,

than the most dissolute freedom.

We inherited from our grandfathers today

indifferent shadow of fatigue -

historical fatigue

demonic generation.

The spirit of the times, though not warlike,

still its bloody surf;

committing suicide,

utopias pull us along.

Pen and eye holding in union,

I do not eat my bread in vain:

Russia - Gordian bathroom

the most pressing current problems.

I'm afraid of any trumpet howls,

looking habitually and soberly:

good, bitching in the excitement of the struggle,

glares sharply and briskly.

I was lucky: I knew the country

the one and only in the world

in your own captivity

in your living apartment.

Where they lie to themselves and to each other,

and memory does not serve the mind,

history goes around

from blood - through mud - into darkness.

Blossom terry and stubbornly

fruits of progress seeds:

the snobbery of the plebeian, the swagger of the boor,

shit arrogance.

In the years of corruption, lies and fear

narrow scope:

forbidden jokes below the groin

and thoughts above dick.

Not close to history, but familiar,

I see our glory very clearly:

we have become an unquenchable beacon,

shining on a course where it's dangerous.

Leading parties and classes,

leaders never understood

that the idea thrown to the masses -

this is a girl thrown into the regiment.

Familiar, silent people,

soundless cocks crow;

we are created for happiness and freedom,

like a fish - for flight and fish soup.

All social systems

from hierarchy to brotherhood -

knocking foreheads about problems

freedom, equality and fornication.

Appointed cup on time to drink,

Russia - a lesson and concern to everyone -

crucified like Christ to redeem

the universal mortal sin of reorganization.

In extreme situations, any

confused, anxious and hot,

calm confidence of the blind

more nightmarish than the confusion of the sighted.

Whatever the century, we are clearer and more audible

through the anguish of the liberal howl:

there is no more dangerous and there is no more harmful,

than freedom without a guard at all.

Us the book of life is a darkness of strife

separates in every line,

and those who know do not know disputes -

they fuck us one by one.

In us, the pulse beats at the temple

mental turmoil evil coolness;

there is longing in the Russian spree,

easily inclined to ferocity.

Close your eyes, close your ears,

counting life for alms,

we break when they don't choke,

savor it as a boon.

Having sleep, food and work,

fate and power are not crossed,

and we are mercilessly fucked,

for which they then treat for free.

Roads to Russian bad weather

flowed through faith and fun;

the more collective way to happiness,

the worse the general hangover.

Years of unrighteous persecution

ooze the invisible juice of infection,

and in the spirit of future generations

creeping deaf metastases.

Personally, I am both servile and cruel,

and as long as it is my nature,

democracy is an artificial flower,

non-living without protection and care.

Life is easy and fun

though disgustingly unheard of,

when everything is clear in the era

and everything is just as hopeless.

There is one mysterious theme,

pertaining to our souls:

the crazier the decrepit system,

the more dangerous it is to destroy it at once.

Comfort and peace grace

the simplest is limited by the limit:

it is dangerous to call black black,

and white is dangerous to call white.

The fate of the Russian evil spell

we are friends with science today,

smarter and thinner Janissaries

and they wear civilian clothes.

Russian character is famous in the world,

it is explored everywhere

it is so strangely vast,

that he yearns for a bridle.

Winter doesn't turn into summer

on the rivers ice drift in the spring is frantic,

and bridges collapse, and remember this

useful for Russian optimists.

Dreams cherished by the ancestors

fed us before the time,

and it's a pity that only leftovers

of them remain now.

Life has its own, different shade,

and your sense of life

when the dungeon is involved

in all its manifestations.

Neither laughter nor sin can do us

turn from the path of the brave,

Dedicated to Yuli Kitaevich, my beloved friend, the author of many of my poems

The flesh is fading.

Dust evaporates.

The years have gone

for a slow dinner.

And it's nice to think

what was it anyway

and someone even needed it.

1
HOW IT IS SIMPLE TO TAKE FREEDOM FROM THE PEOPLE: IT SHOULD JUST BE TRUSTED BY THE PEOPLE

* * *

I feel sorry for Marx: his legacy

fell into a Russian font:

here the end justifies the means,

and the means beat the end.

* * *

For the benefit of the hegemonic class,

so that he reigns relentlessly,

at any moment available to shmona

individual hegemon.

* * *

The layer of man in us is a little bit

layered unsteadily and anxiously;

it is easy to return us to the cattle,

it's very hard to get back up.

* * *

Forever we erected a monument

madness, ruin and loss,

by experimenting with blood

brought negative results.

* * *

I am young, in the remnants of snot,

I'm afraid, shaking life like a pear:

in their souls it is dark, as in the ass,

and in the ass - itching to amuse the soul.

* * *

crushing, crushing and crushing,

fear reproduces itself

grows and feeds itself.

* * *

When history bleeds

whistles to souls and powers,

one - a slug crawls into a hole,

the other is swollen with a boa constrictor.

* * *

Good, not rejecting the means of evil,

on them and reaps the results;

in a paradise where resin is applied,

archangels are hoofed and horned.

* * *

When fear swirls pitch

and the barking of chases pierces the darkness,

blessed is anyone who dares

do not blow out the fire in yourself.

* * *

Provided with a common phrase,

hostile to life and nature,

with lack of freedom, scum and evil spirits

freer to become a shepherd.

* * *

Freedom, looking impartially,

then only becomes necessary,

when there is space inside of me

larger than the outer chamber.

* * *

By blood penetrating to the roots,

piercing the air of the sky,

bondage corrupts us more,

than the most dissolute freedom.

* * *

We inherited from our grandfathers today

indifferent shadow of fatigue -

historical fatigue

demonic generation.

* * *

The spirit of the times, though not warlike,

still its bloody surf;

committing suicide,

utopias pull us along.

* * *

Pen and eye holding in union,

I do not eat my bread in vain:

Russia - Gordian bathroom

the most pressing current problems.

* * *

I'm afraid of any trumpet howls,

looking habitually and soberly:

good, bitching in the excitement of the struggle,

glares sharply and briskly.

* * *

I was lucky: I knew the country

the one and only in the world

in your own captivity

in your living apartment.

* * *

Where they lie to themselves and to each other,

and memory does not serve the mind,

history goes around

from blood - through mud - into darkness.

* * *

Blossom terry and stubbornly

fruits of progress seeds:

the snobbery of the plebeian, the swagger of the boor,

shit arrogance.

* * *

In the years of corruption, lies and fear

narrow scope:

forbidden jokes below the groin

and thoughts above dick.

* * *

Not close to history, but familiar,

I see our glory very clearly:

we have become an unquenchable beacon,

shining on a course where it's dangerous.

* * *

Leading parties and classes,

leaders never understood

that the idea thrown to the masses -

this is a girl thrown into the regiment.

* * *

Familiar, silent people,

soundless cocks crow;

we are created for happiness and freedom,

like a fish - for flight and fish soup.

* * *

All social systems

from hierarchy to brotherhood -

knocking foreheads about problems

freedom, equality and fornication.

* * *

Appointed cup on time to drink,

Russia - a lesson and concern to everyone -

crucified like Christ to redeem

the universal mortal sin of reorganization.

* * *

In extreme situations, any

confused, anxious and hot,

calm confidence of the blind

more nightmarish than the confusion of the sighted.

* * *

Whatever the century, we are clearer and more audible

through the anguish of the liberal howl:

there is no more dangerous and there is no more harmful,

than freedom without a guard at all.

* * *

Us the book of life is a darkness of strife

separates in every line,

and those who know do not know disputes -

they fuck us one by one.

* * *

In us, the pulse beats at the temple

mental turmoil evil coolness;

there is longing in the Russian spree,

easily inclined to ferocity.

* * *

Close your eyes, close your ears,

counting life for alms,

we break when they don't choke,

savor it as a boon.

* * *

Having sleep, food and work,

fate and power are not crossed,

and we are mercilessly fucked,

for which they then treat for free.

* * *

Roads to Russian bad weather

flowed through faith and fun;

the more collective way to happiness,

the worse the general hangover.

* * *

Years of unrighteous persecution

ooze the invisible juice of infection,

and in the spirit of future generations

creeping deaf metastases.

* * *

Personally, I am both servile and cruel,

and as long as it is my nature,

democracy is an artificial flower,

non-living without protection and care.

* * *

Life is easy and fun

though disgustingly unheard of,

when everything is clear in the era

and everything is just as hopeless.

* * *

There is one mysterious theme,

pertaining to our souls:

the crazier the decrepit system,

the more dangerous it is to destroy it at once.

* * *

Comfort and peace grace

the simplest is limited by the limit:

it is dangerous to call black black,

and white is dangerous to call white.

* * *

The fate of the Russian evil spell

we are friends with science today,

smarter and thinner Janissaries

and they wear civilian clothes.

* * *

Russian character is famous in the world,

it is explored everywhere

it is so strangely vast,

that he yearns for a bridle.

* * *

Winter doesn't turn into summer

on the rivers ice drift in the spring is frantic,

and bridges collapse, and remember this

useful for Russian optimists.

* * *

Dreams cherished by the ancestors

fed us before the time,

and it's a pity that only leftovers

of them remain now.

* * *

Life has its own, different shade,

and your sense of life

when the dungeon is involved

in all its manifestations.

* * *

Neither laughter nor sin can do us

turn from the path of the brave,

we build happiness for everyone at once,

and we don't care about anyone.

* * *

Outskirts, provinces of the soul,

where is our abomination, baseness and darkness,

waiting years for the moment. And the descendants

then they wonder how fascism arose.

* * *

I'm afraid that where the darkness is clubbing,

where are the secret springs and entrances,

mass suicidal instinct

waters the roots of the tree of freedom.

* * *

Any can be pestilence porridge

to start with the youth of the Gorlopansky,

which the Second World

already a little confused with the Trojan.

2
AMONG THE INCREDIBLE VICTORIES OF CIVILIZATION WE ARE ALONE AS CARP IN THE SEWER

* * *

Any of us, until he died,

puts itself in pieces

from intelligence, sex, humor

and relationship with the authorities.

* * *

someday, afterwards, later,

but even in the primers they will put a line,

what was done en masse and herd

disentangles each one alone.

* * *

From birth, I am painfully bifurcated,

rushing from extreme to end

my own mother is harmony,

and dissonance is the father.

* * *

Between rumors, fairy tales, myths,

just lies, legends and opinions

we are at enmity hotter than the Scythians

for the dissimilarity of delusions.

* * *

The aging children are swarming

everyone has tragedy and drama,

and I watch these performances

and lonely as Adam's dick.

* * *

I can't go on with this life

and breaking up with her is excruciatingly difficult;

the hardest thing to leave

us from where it is impossible to live.

* * *

In the hearts of someone rude,

awful, probably

once out of your mind

and don't log back in.

* * *

Everyone to himself - deaf doors,

his own criminal and judge,

himself and Mozart, and Salieri,

himself and an acorn, and a pig.

* * *

We are addicted to words -

not at all a whim and not a mania;

we need words

for lies of mutual understanding.

* * *

Now enjoying, then mourning,

following the path of any

be yourself, not you

put in for another.

* * *

In your image and spirit

The Creator sculpted us, creating the origins,

and we keep like Him

And maybe that's why you're so alone.

* * *

Do not jump with the century on a par,

Be human;

you won't be in hell

together with the age.

* * *

I look without complaining, like in autumn

blew the eyelids on white strands,

and see with the same pleasure

fortune buttocks are ripe.

* * *

Pouring into the earthly time stream

by coincidence,

any one of us is so lonely

that happy from any connections.

* * *

Is it not in vain that knowledge is useless

do we disturb our drowsy spirit?

Those who look into the abyss

she looks too.

* * *

There is much happiness in clear faith

with her heavy load light,

Yes, it's a pity that in a clean atmosphere

unbearable to my heavy lungs.

* * *

Though the excitement is sweet

go on two roads at once,

not with one deck of cards

play with the devil and with God.

* * *

It's not easy to think high

soaring with the soul in the interstellar worlds,

when around at the very side

sniff, gnaw and spoil the air.

* * *

We share time and cash

we share vodka, bread, lodging,

but the more distinct the personality,

the lonely person.

* * *

And vile, and vile, and vile,

and the fear that you will become infected with swine,

and the redneck goes astray

and happily bestial unity.

* * *

None of the closest in captivity

not included in my experiences,

I keep my spiritual calluses

from loving sympathetic galoshes.

* * *

Separations whistle at the door,

I sit at the table lonely,

champagne blood boys

become barrels of beer.

* * *

Cultivating a spirit garden,

grunts humanitarian elite,

tormented by pain for the people

and changes of migraine and colitis.

* * *

With the success of science is inconsistent,

and whining - and try to drown out -

my inoperable ulcer

at the bottom of a non-existent soul.

* * *

This thought is a stolen flower

just a rhyme won't hurt her:

man is not alone!

Someone is always watching him.

* * *

With a soul split like a hoof,

I am alien to both fatherlands -

Jew, where the anti-Semites are chasing,

and Russian, where they sin with Zionanism.

* * *

Closer circle. Less and less meetings.

Losses and separation fly;

there are no others, and those are far away,

and who is weak, goes to bitches.

* * *

The god of technology is different from the god of science;

art god - other than the god of war;

and God of love weakening hands

over them stretches from on high.

* * *

So much to pay

as long as life goes on,

that one should thank fate

for cases where you pay for your own.

* * *

In our jungle, fierce and stone,

I'm not afraid of old villains,

but I fear the innocent and the righteous,

selfless, holy and innocent.

* * *

The sons leave with their tails up,

and daughters languish, sitting at home;

we plant seeds, grow flowers,

and after only the buttocks we see.

* * *

When mediocrity is teeming around,

laying down your cliché on life,

outcast hides elitism,

very useful to the soul.

* * *

I feel sorry for this blue sky,

sorry for the earth and life fragments;

I'm scared that well-fed pigs

scarier than hungry wolves.

* * *

Friends are always a little picky.

And they tend to laugh.

Friends are always a little annoying.

Like fidelity and certainty.

* * *

The Lord has sown us like a vegetable garden,

but in the thickets of plants He grows,

we are divided into many breeds,

partially incompatible.

* * *

I live alone and hunched over

friends have died or are serving,

and where harmony flashed to me,

others will just find their ass.

* * *

With my departure, the seam will stretch,

shredding right across the country

country that will remain

and the one that is in me.

* * *

I suddenly lost the feeling of the elbow

with a crowd of teeming people,

and it's bad for me, like a fly in the ointment

must be bad in a barrel of honey.

* * *

Sitting on a friendly quiet feast,

I thought, shaking off the ashes in a saucer,

how often are losers in life

remain in the centuries after death.

* * *

Where are the passions, where is the rage and horrors,

where the army took up arms against the army,

blessed is he who has courage enough

play the flute quietly.

* * *

It's funny how fiercely it drives us

in the flea market of hubbub and feast

fear of being left behind

in the desert of your own world.

* * *

The discord of fathers with children is a guarantee

those constant changes

in which God is looking for something,

playing generational change.

* * *

Your features, strokes and highlights

in the soul of everyone and everyone,

but incomprehensibly different,

we are alone the same.

* * *

Changing goals and names

changing forms, styles, types, -

as long as the consciousness is warm,

slaves build pyramids.

* * *

It's funny when a man, blooming thickly,

having eaten a pood with native salt power,

suddenly finds sad

it looks like he's been fucked for a long time.

* * *

Blessed is he who cares for his body

I laid down my whole life for the sake of bread,

but the sky is brighter above those

who occasionally looks at the sky.

* * *

The glow of the soul is varied,

invisible, tangible and piercing;

mental illness is contagious

mental health is contagious.

* * *

Leave. And live safely.

And remember. And suffer at night.

The soul froze to this frozen earth,

rooted in this dead soil.

* * *

In everything he sees or hears

finding an excuse for sadness,

bore - something like a roof,

flowing even without rain.

* * *

My friends! Forever tenderly devoted to you,

I am exacted by your generosity of soul;

I hope I won't be betrayed by you

and this debt will not be collected by you.

* * *

It descends on us from above

from a bird's eye view

the happiness of a dream come true,

then a drop of liquid droppings.

* * *

There lived a man in a certain era,

insisted with stubbornness,

she killed a man

and he became her pride.

* * *

There is no more disastrous misfortune in life,

than separation from your favorite turmoil:

a person without a familiar environment

becomes Friday very quickly.

* * *

It's just that our psyche is complex,

no more difficult than before:

hope is more important than opportunity

hope to come true someday.

* * *

We are smart, and you, alas,

what a shame if

ass above head

if the ass is in the chair.

* * *

Call me late at night, friends,

do not be afraid to interfere and wake up;

nightmarishly close hour when it is impossible

and there will be nowhere for us to call.

3
IN THE FIGHT FOR THE PEOPLE'S CAUSE I WAS A FOREIGN BODY

* * *

In the land of slaves forging slavery

among whores who sing whores,

the wise man lives as an anchorite,

keeping dick in the wind at the same time.

* * *

How difficult it is in one sitting,

hesitating even if right

your destiny - foggy text -

read without misreading.

* * *

Wasting myself with verses

and squandering a century like day,

I grab my hands

now an echo, now a smell, now a shadow.

* * *

I look at everything that happens

and I think: it will burn with fire;

but I don't go too crazy

because the kingdom of God is within.

* * *

Living half a century day by day

and wiser from the day of birth,

now I'm light on my feet

just to fall together.

* * *

Handsome, smart, slightly stooped,

full of worldview

yesterday I looked into myself

and left in disgust.

* * *

I stubbornly believed in living life,

in a simple reason and in the wisdom of a joke,

and all high matters

gave away skirts to whores.

* * *

Fat women, chips and lame,

scarecrows, whores and beauties

like parallel lines

intersect in my soul.

* * *

I'm not ashamed to be an ardent skeptic

and in the soul is not light, but darkness;

doubt is the best antiseptic

from mind decay.

* * *

The future - the taste does not spoil me,

I'm too lazy to tremble for the future;

think every day about a black day -

means to make black every day.

* * *

I love my disgust

leading me for a long time:

even to spit at the enemy,

I don't put shit in my mouth.

* * *

I was lucky and lucky

judged and thought enlightenedly,

and not one pretty bra

in front of me he rose rapidly.

* * *

My sky is crystal clear

and full of rainbow pictures

not because the world is beautiful,

but because I am a cretin.

* * *

There is an era in the yard,

and there is a bed in the corner,

and when I feel bad with a woman,

I don't care about the era.

* * *

I keep a loyal line

with the temper of time cool;

it's better to be a corrupt cynic,

than under investigation saints.

* * *

In my youth I waited for joy

from the hustle and bustle,

and turn to old age

into a homosexual.

* * *

I live - you can't imagine better

leaning on my own shoulder,

my own lonely companion,

I don't agree with myself on anything.

* * *

I write not disgustingly, but unevenly;

laziness to work, and idleness angers.

I live amicably with a Jewess,

although at heart he is an anti-Semite.

* * *

That's why I like to lie

and I spit at the ceiling

that I do not want to interfere with fate

shape my destiny.

* * *

All the eternal Jews are sitting in me -

prophets, freethinkers, traders,

and, gesticulating to their heart's content, clamor

in the darkness of an unsettled soul.

* * *

I don't need anything in the world

I do not want honors or glory;

I enjoy my peace

gentle, like in paradise after a raid.

* * *

Until the enema is given

I am alive and quite alive;

goat of my optimism

feeds on tryn-grass.

* * *

From two ends I burn my candle,

not sparing flesh and fire,

so that when I shut up forever,

loved ones got bored without me.

* * *

I'm not fit for heroes -

neither in spirit nor full face;

and only one slightly proud -

that I carry the cross with a dance.

* * *

I am with those who are extreme and furious,

lost interest:

the more aggressive the progressives,

the worse the progress.

* * *

Let the bazaar drive in vain

who sees the target. And I personally

took refuge in a life so private,

that and the person is partially deprived.

* * *

I suddenly realized that I live right,

that is pure and, thank God, gifted,

by the feeling that in a dream and in reality

Thank you for everything that happens.

* * *

This happiness is to build a palace on the sand,

not be afraid of prison and scrip,

indulge in love, indulge in longing,

feast at the epicenter of the plague.

* * *

My mind honestly serves my heart,

always whispering that you're lucky

that things could be much worse

it could still be crap.

* * *

I live without believing in anything,

I burn, not sparing, a crazy candle,

I am silent about the find, I am silent about the loss,

and most of all I am silent about hope.

* * *

I swear by the compote of my childhood

and senile heaters I swear

that I'm not afraid of anything

by chance if I touch the truth.

* * *

That grow from some point

we stop - a great pity:

I'm maybe only two centimeters

left to sanity.

* * *

In life conflict any

pity without narrowing the eyelids,

hard to watch yourself

think well of a person.

* * *

I don't believe the lies

about the light in the misty darkness.

I despaired. And therefore

became a desperate optimist.

* * *

At all the crossroads that passed,

held, wishing me happiness,

steel embrace of the motherland

and my neck and wrists.

* * *

On the tree of your genealogy

looking for my character in my ancestors,

I guess sadly that many

swing in a loop on these branches.

* * *

Tends to touch everything with the eye

my mind is shallow, but clear,

except in politics never

I did not fit deeper than the sole.

* * *

In everything with everyone on an equal footing,

like a drop in the dew

in only one was different than all, -

I couldn't live in shit.

* * *

Any royal lot is possible,

enough courage to get used to the role,

where destroyed - better than insignificant,

humiliated - like a deposed king.

* * *

For the fact that laughter prevails in me

over the mind in the midst of life battles,

fortune rewards me generously

back of their medals.

* * *

Closed, light and carefree

I am in my own smoke;

bound by a common chain by chance,

I am only a neighbor in my lifetime.

* * *

In this strange hellishness -

how do i live? What do I breathe?

Noise and boor reign in space,

noisy boor and boorish noise.

* * *

Someday I'll be famous

for me they will christen a brand of cigarettes,

and find out the anti-Semitic linguist,

that I was a Baltic Eskimo.

* * *

I didn't come into this life

to enter the senate on a horse,

I'm already completely satisfied

that no one is jealous of me.

* * *

By no means was I a mannequin

however, he was not in the ballet either;

I'm the nobody who was nobody

and was very pleased with it.

* * *

I have a dream, take care

I will be her fortress infusion:

when the books will be burned again,

let my fire be honored.

* * *

That I became a proletarian - I'm proud;

without fatigue, without rest, without falsehood

I try, I strain and I work,

like a young lieutenant - on a general.

* * *

In the midst of the noisy desert of life,

where is passion, and ambition, and struggle,

I have enough pride

to endure humility.

* * *

What is my ideal reader like?

I see it clearly:

he is a skeptic, a loser and a dreamer,

and it is a pity that he does not read anything.

* * *

The Lord is playing with me deftly,

and I - over him a little joke,

I like my rope

Here I am kicking my feet.

* * *

All my youth I loved trains,

so that hour is unknown to me,

when my lucky star

went up and did not find me in the place.

* * *

Prison was not heaven at all

but I often thought, smoking,

that, as you know, God is not a fraer,

which means I'm not sitting in vain.

* * *

To many things that time is dirty,

darkness of events, vile and vile,

I easily find the seed

in their own thoughts and feelings.

* * *

Fornication of the world reconstructions

and delirium of fusion in ecstasy -

have many common properties

with a tornado flush in the toilet.

* * *

The era is proud of me for morality,

so that everyone knows about it everywhere,

write my name forever

in the cloud, in the wind, in the rain.

* * *

Where will the soul be taken after death,

I do not bargain with God;

in paradise the climate is much milder,

but better society in hell.

4
FAMILY FROM GOD IS GIVEN TO US, A REPLACEMENT TO HAPPINESS SHE

* * *

A woman is glorious from the century

everything that makes a family beautiful;

woman is man's friend

even when he's a pig.

* * *

The jailer is efficient and sensible,

life locks us up for a long time,

closing soft shackles

love, habit and duty.

* * *

A man is a boor, a bore, a despot,

tormentor, miser and dumbass;

to make it known to us

we should just get married.

* * *

The Creator gave a woman's face

ability to transform:

first we introduce a sheep into the house,

and then we endure from the she-wolf.

* * *

After eating poods of joint porridge

and gave years to the struggle,

all the good things in our women

we owe ourselves.

* * *

Not the fate of the coming cloud,

not a quagmire of low everyday life,

hurts us the most

the closeness of our loved ones.

* * *

Do I roam the street noise

I eat porridge or wash on Saturdays

I ponder thoughtfully:

Why do they think I'm an idiot?

* * *

I lived as a bachelor for a long time,

and my life was pretty empty,

although he had one trifle:

freedom of smell, color and taste.

* * *

Family is the most reliable blessing,

boat in everyday bad weather,

and only moisture is comparable to it,

with which happiness is easier.

* * *

Don't scold me, friend

get away from the hustle and bustle

everyone eats each other

and me, and you.

* * *

In order not to let the family fade away,

a wife was sent to us by God,

and in women of strangers on a spoonful of honey

pours cunning Satan.

* * *

Children are nailed to the family,

we protect the peace of the spouse;

nothing is worth the tears of a wife,

except for the hug of a friend.

* * *

my happy face

won't spill anything;

I wear a ring on my finger

and with my neck I feel it.

* * *

To the fact that there is a crack in the family,

there is only one reason:

a woman awakened in the wife,

a man fell asleep in her husband.

* * *

Started a family. Children were born.

Wandering in search of coins.

It is impossible to live without women in the world,

and with them there is no life at all.

* * *

If on an autumn and windy day

the husband leaves, shuffling cheerfully,

the triangle is called isosceles

despite different hips.

* * *

I was single - I dreamed of odalisques,

bacchantes, whores, geishas, ​​pussies;

Now my wife lives with me

and silence at night.

* * *

Family chains in redemption

God granted copulation;

and the unmarried, throwing off their blouses,

have a no-load benefit.

* * *

I got into trouble for love,

wearing family suspenders,

but got used to the traction, like a trotter,

all his life running from the team.

* * *

Lucky and brave intruder

legality, traditions, silence,

decisive arbiter of his fate,

I am terribly afraid of my wife's tears.

* * *

Midnight strikes. We've been together for a long time.

A woman sleeps, illuminated by the moon.

Sleeping woman. My seed sleeps in it.

Already, perhaps, turning into a son.

* * *

We still have a lot of animal

remained in everyone, but the great

cruelty to loved ones -

only a human given is wild.

* * *

I'm dragging a cart with life

without tension and whining,

perceiving life washed

high light of being.

* * *

The Lord is cruel. Green ignoramuses,

he turns us yellow

and a flock of gentle thin girls -

into a crowd of grumpy overweight wives.

* * *

When in family noisy quarrels

the wife is wrong

about it later in memoirs

the mature widow mourns.

* * *

If a deep connection breaks,

the pain of a tear is treated with salt.

It's good to part, laughing -

over yourself, over separation, over pain.

* * *

If our Creator were not bound

mercy, like a rope,

The Eternal Jew could be terribly punished

combination with Eternal Zhidovka.

* * *

Does the ear hear, does the eye see?

these fractures trace and crunch?

Those who love us break us

cooler and more skillful than Procrustes.

* * *

It's a pity for the woman when, destroying happiness,

seeking leadership by mistake,

crushes the man under him,

and she becomes bored and nauseous.

* * *

When excitedly, seriously, not in jest

family battles rage

it's sad to think that reason

secretly dictated by the genitals.

* * *

Praise, women, men:

man for praise

will get the moon from the clouds

and the dust will sweep away in the corner.

* * *

Where is the harmony of our women?

The years are melting away, and becoming them is not at all the same;

but at every step they perform

they are a sumptuous belly dance.

* * *

The family is a theater where it is no coincidence

all peoples and times

entrance facilitated extremely,

and the exit is very difficult.

* * *

Stuck in family habit,

although we are still ignited,

but they already look like matches with ardor,

that burn only from someone else's box.

* * *

Fear a friend, not an enemy -

not enemies put us horns.

* * *

Our women are in vain afraid of hearing

about male infidelity inevitability,

very turn us away from whores

it is necessary to talk to them.

* * *

Cupid hooligans with a target

male foolish hearts,

and a bitch, a bore and a rogue

everyone goes down the aisle first.

* * *

Today for a happy marriage

a woman must have a lot of courage.

* * *

And Byron is right, noticing gloomily,

that the world owes, as a gift,

the fact that once Laura

did not marry Petrarch.

* * *

In the idyll of all loving families,

where the maple does not look enough at the mountain ash,

wife from her feminine weakness

makes a heavy club.

* * *

For an even home climate

the right word means a lot,

and from the whisper of love at night

the temper of the brownie improves.

* * *

Century after century blind blunders

a man does without thinking

what's inside the charming bird

a crocodile gloomy can live.

* * *

Awakened by the light that came to life in the window,

I pulled the blanket back on;

I'm an interrupted dream about cheating on my wife

I wanted to watch to the end.

* * *

Anyone - sovereign and private

my body is alien to tyranny,

although very in family life

useful I see despotism.

* * *

Completely own your wife

and manage your family

much more difficult than the country

although smaller in terms of villainy.

* * *

Flowers. The hum of people.

An empty lie that is forever with us.

Dull ringing of blind nails.

And silence. And darkness. And flame.