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Poems..



       A moment ago: the conviction totally filled me:  that:
a literary journal is a wild and dangerous nonsense: because:
there is no periodicity in art:  those magical events: which:
can be  marked by the name the ARTWORKS rightfully:  appears:
almost always: supremely abruptly: and: regardless of prayers
and drumming: rarely.
       Considering that: there are very few eligible artists:
there are only a few poets: and:        a few writers of life
stories - considering that: such a poet:    rarely owns more:
than: ten true POEMS:      and: also in the archives of prose
masters: it is similary.
       By which - for heaven's sake!    - the editors fulfill
every month such a literary journal?
       By own useless sentences?
       I can't imagine it at all.
       Maybe some meaning: could have a 17-year period:  like
cicadas:   which live seventeen years underground in a larval
state: and:  then flying out to mate - true:   then they live
only shortly.
       Especially then: it is extremely toxic:    when such a
journal gets into the hands of a young person:   who has real
talent: and: desire to work: because:   let's admit: that: no
one else can seriously read such a journal:  even its makers:
can't do it more than once usually.
       Such a young person: then: acquires usually:       the
irreversible belief: that: the boring sparse atrocities: that
are printed there: that: this is a literature   - and that is
a crime already.



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