я понятия не имею, как это правильно называется, но обострение -первое, что приходит на ум.
шкалят датчики. все знакомое до каждого такта, до каждой ноты медленно вплывает в уши. по воле - или против - неизвестно даже мне. каждая нотка. перкуссия. секунда. секундочка.
изящные, но все же мужские плечи, хрупкое тело, облаченное в маленькое черное платье. а мне тогда было всего восемь лет. и я вообще не знала, что так бывает. что бывает наоборот. а сейчас я так к этому привыкла. так тоскую. не передать.
последний раз так было в конце октября, когда я цепенела от музыки. от акцента. от чего угодно. чего мне даже сейчас не дано понять. и стучала подбородком о сгиб кисти правой руки. от судорог в диафрагме. от слез, которые порой глотала громче, чем дышала. когда мама хотела вызывать скорую. и не могла ни слова из меня вытянуть. для нее, видимо, тем лучше.
а когда ты сидишь у кусаешь корпус карандаша так, что весь язык и губы испачканы в грифель, пытаешься поймать его дыхание. грязные руки, чернила от принтера, мокрые листы белой офисной бумаги. разлитая ржавая вода на полу. красочные пятна. открытые баночки с вязкой непросохшей гуашью.
три черных карандаша для глаз, стертых до основания. я не выхожу из дома неделями. и крашу глаза красным карандашом для губ.
в шестом часу утра отец с хлопком открывает дверь в комнату. а я сижу сгорбившись на кровати. в красках и нижнем белье. он кричит. с придыханием. потом отвлеченно смотрит на монитор, хлопает дверью. и уходит спать.
типа алкогольное настроение (с) и дешевая фиолетовая помада. что удивительно -не стекает в уголки губ.
а Он стоит возле моего платяного шкафа в утренних лучах и говорит "oh will you listen to my new song, darlin?"
и протягивает мне крохотную пуговку наушника от своего черного айпода.
я слушаю - а там- ask for answers.
dark is everywhere. rain is everywhere. it feels like raining cats and dogs, oh fuck.
little boy-like blondie with her virgin lips painted bright red. a white cotton shirt glued to her cold and pale skin. also not knowing what might happen, yeah. waist. waste. waistcoat. waster. you don't say so. but she is. you are.
coming up, so casual, so pathetic, so drenched to the bone, huh. she's' got only a moment. not to be mistaken, otherwise it will turn out to be a torture. and a pool of tears early in the morning. next mornin's rays.
but she isn't. thanks god. yeah. thank you. for being right now and right here.falling, rising, hesitating and breathing so heavily. the way yo do. trough your dark long hair, damn you.
- oh, that slipping, fuckin rain. oh, are you a whore?
only howing her wet fingers. so thin and skilful, he wantes to belive it. he did.
- i am.
- how much?
- will be solved.
cheap city ligts. horny sadness. and she knows she may be lucky. from time to time. at least once in her life. full of cameras and shoots. faggy boys. skinny girs dressed in jeans. condoms. ones shimmering badly. hunger and lemon shots. tatoo needles. orange books and her pierced nipples.
a cuple of crunching papers. done.angry thing on the first floor. she's following my back till he opens the door with his wet shoulder.
fuck you, bitch. but you should be blessed, for not knowing who he is. you won't get zealous anyway. listen to the radio not to hear the shouts in the next hotel room.
so warm down the belly button. i might have been good at writing fake romances for the boring housewifes. crunching the booch on my jacket. it will suit you. i know.
- do you want me?
switch off the light and speak French, though i only know a couple of phrases. she will whisper je t'aime to the inside. to your naked collar - bones. you dont care.
not the way it should be censored. but we are the only ones who knew. if i told anyone, they wouln't believe it either.Je t' aime!Je t' aime!
you know what happened. you know how it takes place. it won't be repeated, still. you know.
end up. and the silence is so easy.
seeing my "this picture" tatoo on my naked chest he's still aking me if i really know who he is. i know. i know.
it's getting cold, may i stay up here, you've already payed for the room.
and been talking till five o'clock. caressing the ears. not knowing my name,
she said polly. oh fuck, are you kidding, miss rock'n'roll?
do you love, bitch?
you know.
why have your done it? break my back trough. i thoght i wouldn't handle your skinny arms. but i did. but i'm not sure.
may i have a little smoke? shut me up and kiss me. i'll breathe with your smoke from the deep of your dark blood. kiss.
you won't remember anyway. there's no reason for it.
been smoking and talking trough each other, too long. sleepy ant tired of the body science lessonss, he is.
she was drawing him asleep. even nicer than she could have dreamt. when he was coming around and watching her putting on her little black dress. and breathing into her ear. she was a kind of making art, he was taking her hand into his. and carving the perfrct lines of his lips into the deadly white paper sheet.
and now he's dreming/ and she's drawing. that's too hard.
morning sex. bitter coffee.
i also can play guitar. but i don't think i will ever do it again.
i don't need your money/ i know who are you. i don 't kno who i am.
if i tell them, they won't believe. the'll birn my papers. or kill me enviously to shut up.
you are saving all thet you can. only pay for the cofee, please.
to make a note. or just simply a tick - how was it once? i just wanted to get laid. yeah.
maybe, i love you. forget it.
and take another glass of milk fom the waitress with her eyes wide open.
