Polesse #12 04 октября 1999

Scribble brain - Stories ...

                   Karakul BRAIN



             LITERARY AND ARTISTIC CONSTRUCTION

                   "MEZHLOKALNAYA Contraband"


(C) CORPORATION "Desert Time"



   Yes, so here. Regarding the text. He, is precisely
fundamentally new literature age of Aquarius - toy-books.
Book-whistle. Multipolar psycho-mental constructor.
Play, please.

   Well, I'll be careful here pumping all sorts of 
multi-dimensionality. Such literary works should finally be 
fixed only on the day of death of the physical body of their 
author. Until this time their fate - from year to year in every 
possible way to grow, grow stronger and modified. Om Ram!



                         CURVE STYLE

                         -----------
    Biscuit on the shelf is stored on the windowsill Vodytsya 
melt. 

    Yes, just do not get up, not napitsya - I am tired ...


    The windows of my house were covered with a curtain of dust

    And forgotten - looks like my face

    How to glow in the dark

    And no one - neither a friend nor beast

    In my unlocked door excitedly knocks

    Neither the thief nor a tree nor a bird.


                         HRONOPROHODTSY

                         ------------
                Through the dirty storm sectarianism,

                We are moving in your confusion

                And lit it with difficulty,

                Spring space

                Ice jams!


   Yes, so here. This feeling that I fell off three roofs at 
once. Whether to refer it to you, my dear reader? ..



                        EARTH Empyrean

                        --------------
              Knocking at the window of a frozen St.

              And requests and requests to put on the wait

              And it presents the coveted brew

              Pitcher of the crowded emptiness

              And looks with hope to the earth's unearthly

              And as if behind a mirrored wall

              And mosques sighted and blind trail

              And the snow is a continuous blanket

              On the white fingers in the wind overnight

              Hand or a bird in the window knocking

              When I'm standing behind him?


   That is, among other things, this text - and certainly the 
current Chronicle of event streams. And my own and those - the 
cultural, economic, political, social and asocial.



                        Planeta-RUSSIA

                        -------------
                Even before the birth I dreamed of this

                     Magical Power

                            Killed Poetry


                   Ekzisteniialnye strategy:


              "The P & T U R L S U P R O F A T O V"


         Hop! Turn off the disco!



    Yes, so here. Words, this is what you do not trifles. This 
substance serious. And yet (this is in fact a paradox!) Sly and 
cheerful, like puppies. 


                        Uleta CASTANEDA

                        -------------

              From the left logic of mystical delirium,

              The eternal call of the universal absurdity

              Flies in the sky overcast Castaneda

              Tearing shoulder straps demiurge


              A little distance away, skirting the cliffs,

              Flies, flies through the sky wedge tired

              And in the ranks there is a gap small

              Perhaps this is the place for him ...


   Stories:


   One time, I remember sitting with Carlos Castaneda (it's one 
of my close friend-enemy), we talk. I'll treat him a beer with 
sour cream, cheese and ham. He - in a frock coat with a gold 
Maltese cross buttonhole, I - in the home dressing-gown ...


   But this is not the point.

   I told him:

   - Well, brother, Castaneda, how?

   - Oh, - meets - all as a commercials ...

   - Everything you write - I say - fool head. And God is not 
afraid? 

   - I fear - is responsible.

   - Well, and? - I say.

   - Weak, - answers - nothing with myself I can not ...

   So talking, we sat with him all night. And at dawn Dawn
Carlos - sour, dispirited - turned into a crow and flew to the 
U.S.. 

   "Too me, one" - I thought, looking at the watermelon seed
in the pulp of a new dawn.