Inside of me to not accumulate
a lot of nonsense,
I decided to share it.

Most  books  are  faulty  with  too  many  words,  too  few  thoughts  and  even  less  meaning.

Many are tormented by the question:
what is the meaning of being?
The question is why...
I here is, suppose, know,
but is it something 
changes?

The  proportion  of  wisdom  and  stupidity 
in  the  head  doesn't  matter  as  even  one 
spoon  of  tar  spoils  the  whole  barrel 
of  honey... 
Thus,  before  seeking  for  wisdom  one 
should  eradicate  all  one's  stupidity.

Art by Martin Anderson

I  saw  totally  simple  things 
in  complex  ones... 
And  I  was  surprised  to  learn 
that  anything  complex  contains  many  simple  things... 

Art by Martin Anderson

To  a  rhetorical  question  -  who  are  you? 
a  frog  answered  «ribbit», 
having  filled  the  marsh  with  its 
adoration… 

To  a  rhetorical  question 
back  -  who  are  you? 
I  answered  «nobody». 
The  frog  twisted  its  mouth 
and  noticed  that, 
it's  better  be  someone 
on  the  marsh  ... 

Art by Martin Anderson

Take  a  little  from  me: 
an  acorn  - 
          a  germ  of  forests, 
a  bean  - 
          a  stairway  to  heaven. 

I feel like a lightbulb., 
which the host includes a kick of the foot
on the switch...
I dissatisfied spark,
but the master needs light...
No alternative options
he's not even considering.

It's  not  necessary  to  look  for  sense  in  everything.  Many  things  happen  without  any  sense,  but  out  of  nature's  love  for  diversity. 

Art by Martin Anderson

Are  you  able  to  love  him? 

…despite  kitchen  smoke, 
despite  tv, 
despite  kid  screams,  school  lessons, 
despite  night  insomnia, 
despite  overcrowded  subway, 
despite  work  days  8  hours  from  9  a.m.  to  6  p.m, 
despite  offence  and  irritation, 
despite  indifference  and  emptiness, 
despite  shops  and  markets, 
despite  diseases  and  climate  changes, 
despite  kith  and  kin, 
despite  smog  and  fog, 
despite  fried  potato  smell  in  the  kitchen, 
despite  hundreds  of  «but»,  «if»  and  «why», 
despite  hundreds  of  thoughts, 
despite  hundreds  of  difficulties, 
despite  any  distance, 
despite  time. 

…are  you  able  to  love? 

I  look  back  on  my  past  - 
on  yesterday, 
on  the  day  before  yesterday 
and  think, 
gosh,  I'm  such  a  silly! 
...and  then  I  look  into 
tomorrow, 
into  the  day  after  tomorrow 
and  think, 
how  many  mistakes  I  will  do... 
…That's  how  it  flows 
in  the  mistakes 
among  the  islands  of  right 
happy  choices  - 
...  I'm  a  shiplet. 

If  one  thrusts  an  ass  in  grain  forward 
then  one  can  make  him  roll  really  far... 

Our  life... 
reminds  me  of  a  knife-grinder, 
the  mission  of  which  lies  in 
hard  scrupulous  work  over 
dull  and  getting  dull 
people. 

Having  got  into  another  dead  end…  out  of  desperation,  I  decided  to  hit  my  head  against  the  wall  and  suddenly  broke  it... 

Information  expands. 
Information  accumulates. 
Information  becomes  more  complicated... 

It's  only  novelty  and  perfection  that  are  valuable, 
anything  else  is  to  be  processed... 

He was thirsty...  water or fire
the brick dream dripped silence into the palm of the day.

The phone floated in it almost alive
he silently waited to steal peace and sleep
and running around the table in fear
waves of ripples blew bubbles to the bottom
                     
And the words ran on the keys
and the thought sank but floated
somewhere in the distance somewhere in the ceiling
that it would grow some sense in the grain.

I'm looking at you through a telescope  -
you live on the other end of the telescope.,
you're huge to me,
I'm the point for you.

An ordinary table an ordinary chair an ordinary bed
and 200 cans of soup Warhol put in a row

An ordinary person an ordinary room ordinary wonders
the trees are like lanterns with spiders weaving telephone wires in them

Elephant takes bath green fish nibble grass 
clouds creep into the brain walls fall into the void

The cigarette is finished the tea is finished the Lemonade is brewed
the whole town falls through the door and into hell

The table often laughs sprouting fresh books mushrooms
uniform music creeps mold into raw minds 

Mirrors are ears they hear everything and everywhere
like someone breeding or twitching in a loop..

Clouds steamers homes in hallways hangers and bodies
sometimes brains or umbrellas and other weird stuff

And forgetting the extra necessary only with you carrying
an ordinary person rolls back and forth in his rooms.

The house is filled with emptiness...  the House has no wings
will not be able to fly out the window will have to live as it is

Thread draught patterns weaves of brick
while the shadow of the key creeps into the door lock 
                                                     
Here      connected by a cross stained    walls
their eyes were covered with darkness they were bricked up doors

Here the puddles returned to the rain splashing smaller
drop by drop they flowed away smiling at something

Shrouded in candle flame shadow looking around chilly
she wove patterns of silence and warmed herself with it

And the crest fell and ran where not to tell
through the voice only wheezed, but that did not make out.

If  in  a  maze  all  ways  lead  to  dead  ends,  it's  not  fair  but...  quite  true  to  life. 

Art by Evgeniy Slinko