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Poems..



       When we'll ignore that longaeval konflict: between educated and
non-educated audience - which is found in every art  - that: not every
a nice naked woman: or: landscape with a rainbow:        is a creative
artifact: and: not all heartbreaking verses: are poetry   - when we'll
ignore this: Dear Madam - a broad public fuck the poetry.
       :Why read it?    Why break your head with some moronic ciphers?
They do not even rhyme ?   Besides: it's embarrassing just without the
music: it's just a too little: it's no time.
       Pure poetry lives only for people: who write it.  She misplaced
an eager consumer: and offended: she moved into the movies      - into
songs: and into the thick described: and:      beautifully illustrated
pamphlets of mass murderers.
       Poetry is a bunch of gaffers: old ladies:  couple gerontophiles
and several autistic introverts:  who love the native land and candle:
they have some swingers clubs: and:  publish their rankings and photos
from orgies. They are especially respectful attentive:  and: lovely to
each other - and that's why - they flourish in their lives. Love.
       Then there was: Madam Editor:            the group of extremely
intelligent boobs: I do not know: I've heard nothing about them  for a
long time: maybe they retired somewhere under undergraund (or I did).
       I realy wanted to find myself once between them.     I dreamed:
that there must be a supersensible communication there.    I imagined:
how we will constantly count the rhythm: and:         to conceptualize
exhalations: We'll just smile to ourselves: and think: this is billing
rather than poetry: and why not ? Hehe hehe.     Together we will feel
tremendous desire to integrate our enormous education: into:       our
lengthy self-manifestations: and: for whole eager world:    we'll give
for admiration our jumping intellectual overproduction: and:     acute
devotion to verbal non-simplification.
       And then: a fox pack: these jesters: who are making fuck of it.
Some of them I knew personally: and: there were times when    I wanted
belong among them: but I could not do it: or:       I was lucky: Madam
Editor. :They have the courage and the healthy audacity: to sell their
own shit: publish their books: and: become to awareness.          This
happening by creating myths from pompous events: that: have never been
real. In google: from time to time:   they are hanging a couple of sad
digital photos: on which:         I also personally stood like a model
formerly. I suppose there's a lot more on facebook and Istagram.*
       But about this: Madam Editor: I don't know anything: and:     I
don't even want to know: much better is to grumble with you: here from
distance. It's pleasant. I got used to that taste of sweet insult.


       *In this paragraph:  quite by chance:     I revealed the way in
which history comes into being: any ongoing event is:           in its
subsequent later description: distorted necessarily:  according to the
quality of the person: who perceives the event: and:        his or her
personal interconnectedness with this event.  It is very naive to take
historyliterally.



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