September 7th, 2009


Alexei Korolёv. The sun sometimes resembles a baby

the sun sometimes resembles a baby with skin in yellowish blur wrapped in the towels so tightly to keep away the meat odour
sometimes it looks like commissar who lies in blood which flows and drops or like a blackening piece of lard which had been stolen at railway stop
perhaps the sun is mumbo jumbo as boiled-down hair in henna dye as voice so alcoholic and crumbly as willow bough at window pane
but no the sun's a depth of beachhead from fainting fit of sentinel up to a woman fully grateful for treachery of her own men
perhaps the sun can be a pennant a poet leaving his high throne a decent town which is not draining its squares embroidered with a cross
but no the sun is just an imprint of iron will from beerhouse and scattering of sandy coasts and an internal voice of cracks
it doesn't matter how they look at the peaks of hills and pyramids where sun is keeping electron's whim and a fine pretentiousness of mind
for all impudent songs of ours we'll never know about the sun as body's dumb before proportions as khokhloma would stun the hun

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