A crazy mill, in which a person is a grain, and millstones, and wings, and wind

A crazy mill, in which a person is a grain, and millstones, and wings, and wind. Selected "New". The best publications in 20 years

Everyone of God's Saturday (well, almost every one, four times a year he retreats from this task) Dmitry Bykov writes a verse for Novaya Gazeta. He proceeds, apparently in the morning-and to waves to five to six hours, in the manner of Fakir, the tape of cross-rhymes tears out of the throat. The tape is always good, and sometimes just brilliant. To the samples of the daily self -torture of Bykov in this “new” issue could be added six more times so much. The same quality.

In addition to the “new” - Bykov writes weekly for the “interlocutor”, leads radio, suddenly sends an excellent text to the anniversary of Alexander Green (all forgot - and Bykov remembered), dissects according to the scenes with the “citizen poet”, translates the plays, retells Jack London for young children. A crazy mill, in which a person is a grain, and millstones, and wings, and wind!

And suddenly - Tom Boris Pasternak falls out of the mill. Or not inferior to Pasternaku, accurately restrained in intonation, Tom "Bulat Okudzhava" on 775 pages. And almost in the same time-“Ostromov, or a student of the sorcerer” (another 768 pages): Roman is a wonderful smart, full of shadows of the Silver Age, living in Leningrad in the 1920s, doomed to completely fall or take off (but to leave this land-in any case). “Ostromov” today is the most worthy attempt by the “post -Soviet” prose to understand what happened in the twentieth century with the “creative class” of Russia. If you like, this is an inventory. In his real aggregate state - and here Bykov is not afraid to either think or formulate.

And if you return to the Subable vigils for the "new": in Rus' they will rhyme for three hundred years - but no one was doing this on himself. The bruise of the beginning of the 1990s, when “we were ground mercilessly, strangled through the sieve” (speaking by the verses of Bykov himself), apparently, he gave rise to a special reaction from him. The same crazy as all other forms of reactions, but special: he holds the pace of the new time. It consists in a chronic duel with him, proving weekly: here you can write faster than you think! Here you can go out to people with a depreciated one like Rukhlyadi of verses - and you, citizens, will swallow them like cute ... This form of independence.

Elena Dyakova

Synoptic

All this will end soon: winter, dawn at noon, slippery, snowdrifts and eternal, driving a native mixture of powerlessness and anger, and lack of sleep, and morning trembling, and dirty transport - with a tickle without unity - and a dirty thought that you do not want, but wip it, because it was born here. About this, brother, Tom was written: the weather changes in other parts, and here is the Russian winter for six months, and the fear of the winter is another six months. Looking around in the eternal jigsaw, shaking in front of the Knock-ONENSE space ... But it seems that it was already in some kind of messageless messenger. I will not dare to go deeper into the reasons, but it is clear what to go to the street that winter has ended in the resource to maintain itself in severe form. She devastated the bins. Already dripping the bear in the den ... I emphasize: this is all winter and no politics, by golly!

I felt some kind of fracture. The fellow travelers looked at each other, as if a careless angel, following from the south, had now touched them with a wing. For a moment, a street dungeon was forgotten, and a bare park, and an ice croup-it turned natural, simple, and it became clear how all this is fragile: fear, snow, and thick coat, snow, and stone women ... Cyclic life has a simple advantage at least (the round earth, with a shallow, is similar to Russia), which is done somewhere in February. Crossing. The softening of air and everyday life will take place throughout the middle band in the entire space: there will be no fear of sticking his noses into the street that is blocked by snow; The insidiousness of a little sprinkled ice to the passerby can no longer be able to inspire that this life, that it will always be so that our century will be so poor and that anyone who hits this ice, conquering space with battle, is a paid, insignificant idiot, risking others and by themselves. It will be possible to sigh with all the lungs, freed from the sweater of the body ... No, I'm not talking about politics, by no means. I have been tired of politics for a long time. What is the use of - add a smear to the picture of a mutual shame? Can I at least once about nature? Moreover, soon, soon, soon ...

Of course, no matter how spring is embellished, it is formidable and irreducible to the negs. I know myself that it will be dirt. That all the shit, which is under the snow, will smell so that mom do not grieve; that the bird's whip does not delight hearing; that in addition to the first herbs and spring jets in the world there is both slush and devastation; That the snow will slightly succumb, and the crunchy nast will be covered with an invisible network of cracks - as the first thaw will betray a high system that is bequeathed to it. I heard the spring first thunder. I know - everyone will pay off by faith: after all, evil is not won by good, but the worst evil (at least with us). But this humidity! This series is a word about the sweet liberty of citizenship! Who once again inhaled April, gentlemen, he was no longer born in vain. I also lead this spirit of pork, the dung spirit of spring black slurry-but still! But at least such a price! And this time is closer, closer, closer ...

I least of all want to be known as a feuilletonist pulling the rubber, and how can I, stubborn, explain that this is not about the authorities, but about the winter? I would not scold in delirium-we are not in North Korea after all ...

And what you mean will end much sooner.

02/11/2009

Apocalypse Now

Remember the song about the celebration of a common trouble? In a past life, it was composed by Nautilus. There are already many not only water; This feeling has gone, or more precisely, turned. This song, as you see, has not been singing for a long time-its obsolescence is explained by this: we were once related to the rotten comfort in the reserve Father, then still general. We then stood at such a line that it was barely seen from the New Age: our holidays were already different, we sang differently, ate differently, we were unprofitable for us for our labors-who stood at the fed and who was at the crucible-but the state of the common misfortune was not only warm, but somehow related. Harvested the crop, the milk yield was reduced, and the cutting was broken in the orbit-it was still seeing a common misfortune, and not someone’s guilt and not a feat of someone else. It was evident that the homeland was moving to hell, and the planet was already making fun of us; In each case, someone was to blame, but then it seemed not to be the main thing. A goat sang over the Soviet Union, the rusted scrapers remained in the Utla - Chernobyl became the last common trouble, the rest did not rally anyone.

Twenty years, as a regression lasts in the Fatherland - a series of buckets, murders and accidents. All of them - from Beslan to the Shushenskaya hydroelectric power station - repeat a single scenario today. And I'm afraid that the final collapse happened - and the tandem, and the fund, and oil, and gas - before gurt to turn to dust, we will play it the last time. Four horses will be jumped on the homeland, but we will not allow us to panic, and Shoigu, the unreasonable press of the cowing, will repeatedly remind you that everything is under control. Goskanals turn on, shouting synchronously, that Rush is strengthened on the mountain; In some places, the locust was devoured in some places, but the usual, former, regular, ours. Immediately on the blogs, they will demand to bring it to the top (“Primulate, copy, color it brightly!”) That Samara was demolished and Chelyabinsk drown, but people do not save the criminal authorities. An anonymous priest will exclaim: "Pray!" and the waste to the spinning will wields the singer; An anonymous specialist will appear, saying that there is nothing to drown Chelyabinsk ... Journalists, the lawyers of the human rights, will get out to the “echo”, repeating the frenzied that someone knocks in the ruins of Anadyr. A criminal case will be instituted against them. Not noticing the water that has gone to the throat and on the claw of the beam in the epicenter of the decay, half will cry out that the Jews are guilty. Emigrants will add that we need so. The population will have time to curse the TV, “Dom-2”, the Socialist of NATO, and the Georgian, and the neighbors, and the vile power (who would argue, all this is really guilty). The dear one will burn for a long time Shapito, the unpretentious seedlings of bad sowing. Nobody will have time to regret anyone. Most are welcoming the death of a neighbor. Neither help, nor longingly to look back-only curses will be filled with a frand tape; Neither crying, nor a good word to say, nor at least to smell the great moment; To forgive, nor to condemn themselves, nor friends wink among the general ora ... In the end, they will still have time to put the guessed: “Brothers, because this is Gomorrah!” The machine gun, flamethrower, vodutet, opponents will get silent in Ile elastic, and the Lord, looking at this, will understand that the flash mob, if you think about it, was merit. But when the silence is already falling on the universal equal secret bed-under Moscow someone else will continue to knock, because this habit is immortal, it seems. Someone will be open under the thickness of the water, convey to the enemy, curse a foreigner ...

For where they do not feel common trouble - they will not forgive anyone and no one will be saved.

08.24.2009

Memory of the forties

About zero, raw materials,
Kachal and drilling
Where the mood is pogrom
And the Gazpromny agreements.
Eyes are faded chains.
Protests Western robes.
Burned caps burn.
Non -wound traffic jams are smoking.

About zero, group,
Idle and business
Where the Jamaatians are modern
And the democrats are sovereign!
Forecasts tomorrow's jams.
Overlooks in tomorrow are scary.
Furious meanings gaping.
Branscock assigned dates.

About zero, rear,
Powerless and power,
Free, incompetent,
Bright and Orthodox!
Where the truth became worse than delirium.
Where nothing means a word.
Where everyone has one victory
And, in general, nothing else.
Where with a form of formidable boring
Suck the empty udder,
And everyone swore, everyone swore
Forty, fatal.
Where in the mask of formidable foolishness
Confuse and the defector
All non -combatants are taken
Judge on behalf of the dead.
The export rash is walking,
Red rocket takes off -
Although the war was not yours
And the country was not this.

About zero, slightly alive,
Lighty and sexual,
Thundered, stupid,
Malakhov, Mikhalkov.

And this is me on a half -land
I play on my barmark.
The rest of the nation stands around
And they quit assignments.
Yes, it's me, nothing is the best
With a barrel organ hanging on
And I rejoice that the case fell out
Live fatal in moments.

How it happened, how it coincided -
Longing, quagmire, decay and clay,
Where all the decent disappeared,
And the obscene is rotten!
About zero, grab,
Silent and choral.
And neither war nor Russia.
And we are no!

05/12/2010

Khimkinskaya ballad

But a bee,
But a bee,
But he saved the peop!
Dmitry Filatov

In a country that has quite a lot from God, who took a significant piece on the globe, there were gardens, forests, fields and water, individual freedoms and the Khimkinsky forest. Simple inhabitants, builders, readers, in the special forces, in a robe, in fun and longing, - the gardens dug, spat on freedom and ate sandwiches in the indicated fishing line.

But here they are on their monastery-you want, do not want-a fighter of such a mess: two small heads, two ponytails, four pale eyebrows and a hard hand. “You all mired in a feces without a power vertical, the property was stolen, the good went into the sand” - and took away freedoms, as well as gardens, forests, fields and water, and the Khimkinsky forest. “Calm! Less ringing! " - they said half a diopon. "But we are friends of the law!" - Friendship plunged him. “We’ll figure it out with the earth, we will report freedom, and in Khimki we will build an autobahn instead of the forest.”

The captured people did not spit into the well: after all, his own skin was familiar and close. He gave the gardens, and water, and freedom, but - the Russian nature - they felt sorry for the fishing line! “We really understand that we break an important plan,” their crying swam over the edge, long and high. - Unread years we lived without freedom, take oil and water - leave us a forest! ”

“You will wait for the dispersal,” they said half a paracon. - Even during it, you gave the right. The supreme bread was now spiting on you! " - And importantly, the second head nodded.

From sort of jokes, retaliatory bonds are long. An excited ecologist arranged a march, broke tents in the forest, arranged riots, but repelled attacks on the Khimki forest. Journalists escaped, then anti -fascists, rijes, anarchists, a churchman with an image - some arrested, others were added, but others did not allow them to deal with the fishing line. Our country is this: the lord is indulging, at least two of the birthmans of the people to give the people more than two, but in the dispute about a little, he suddenly rests on a horn and will say to God that it will not give it away. Take oil and gases, sapphires and diamonds, and previous decrees, and will, and a family - a woman, a granny, and a fish hub, but do not touch mine! We easily and rampantly we handed over everything that is possible, externally and subcutaneously, and then, to the bone; We do not need either the press or the ghost of the Polites, but we will not give the Khimkinsky forest, sorry.

While some hiccups, others incited, the verticals ripe decent fruits, in an ordinary Russian genre, and the authorities shook them: fires came to them, but there were no water. Once upon a time, journalists, artists and rijes loved the verticals-but here the other way around! Neither the correspondence of Ryndsk, nor the srach “Tolstaya - Rynsk” no longer distracted the angry people. The dragon stomped with his feet, then clapped his wings, threw the turntable on the floor, rode around the Kremlin - but frightened of the cutting, squeezed four lips, thought about concessions and said: “I will give way.”

“I will accept Bono,” they said half a paracon. - At least so, at a price of falsehood, we will save faces. And then let's say to people that together we will discuss everything. Well, away from sin, fly to Sakhalin. "

And Xi - Judge, nature! Shevchuk - opening the year - among the crowd of people on Pushkinskaya sings. Sensing the will of the smell, the West will brush the tear: the dragon gives hope for the first time in a year. “In Russia, perestroika! - Boyko experts shout. - We sustained a stance monstrous stagnation. Our feat inspired, to the joy of the whole universe, will be compared only with the abolition of the monstrous sixth*. ”

I do not belittle, friends, I am valiant. I look at your attempts with a tear: and how, tell me the mercy, we changed so much, so quickly fell into a deep mesozoic?! And indeed - jubilant, power, blackening from a fire, counting rusty days, without right, without progress, without a plan, without weight ...

But they did not give the Khimkinsky forest.

* The sixth article of the Constitution of the USSR on the leading role of the CPSU was canceled in 1990.

08/30/2010

Viburnum

The megalder, who steers the king, goes from Khabarovsk to Chita at the wheel along the Russian loamy depth. Anyone who believes the melodies of local surdin can assume that he is going alone, but there is a video in Yu-Tube. This is a video that the local amateur has been shot: the men along the roadsides are squeezing each other (peppy faces: you will cut it out) and with a smiling obscenity, with which, they say, a partisan detachment went out to the trains, and they are relentlessly monitoring the motorcade.

And the motorcade, I will report to you - this is a motorcade. In Siberia, this did not ride. So they drove, go, boys, and even those compared to us. To begin with, on the highway, from dawn empty, a security car passes. Behind the protection of cops, for the cops special communications (imagine, if it were interrupted? All government - without lord!). And behind them, under the friendly "Look!" Partisan, youth, yellow, like Parmesan, rushes the Premier Lada Kalina.

And behind her - FSB, FSO and FAPSI: even if the premiere of the mosquito is bite - he will be left right there without nose. After that, in the surroundings of their Kholuyev, the heads of local regions hasten, preparing cheerfully for the variety. Especially for them, the thunder breaks me, there are several "ambulances" with all kinds of good, from anesthesia to Vaselin! And the riot police bus, stuffed with people, so that there is an excess of folk love. And the reserve "Lada Kalina."

Following them, with a tarp on strong sides, is a truck with a population, fattened so that the face is gratefully glossy: all ordinary peasants, from ancient foundations, hardening a hundred piercing words about supreme lingering and mercy. There are complaints with a sad swing of beards: either rains sometimes, then mushrooms; Three or four disturbing the fact that the prime minister intervenes at the same second-a kindergarten, for example, mosquitoes, for example; But as long as we cope somehow. And behind them, by a miga, a lot of Osiyan, a truck of pies from ordinary Russians: they could have been enough to Berlin; And behind them, ready to collect duffel bags, the soldier’s company rides - to guard the pies; And one more Lada Kalina.

Following the journalists a proven pool, to talk so that the prime minister does not fall asleep: boredom on an empty highway! Neither fellow travelers nor the State Council to you, the Lyube group was listened ten times (the Chayf group waits in stock). The television group aimed its betakami. Following her - security to beat in the hands, if local dirt, or clay, or drunk people with their cake in the foregoing, wanders on foot. And the fourth "Lada Kalina."

It’s like there is little security at every step-a detachment of the Ministry of Emergencies rushes, we head Shoigu, if suddenly something is an extraordinary. It is landed by the chef in a taiga bang, a detachment of youth rushes to set fire to the forest and extinguish it right there, for the photo. Following them, the detachment of disagreements is taken, their nails are bloated in horror - a club is going on their bus; This show is transported to all cities - "This is what will go with the decided to go there."

And the control "Lada Kalina."

God, do I see a dream? When will I wake up? All endless Putinorus rides, all the brange, speaking in a hazard; Sunny glare is spreading on the wing, the forgotten Medvedev misses in the Kremlin - he was left alone on the farm. The St. Petersburg flock, Lukoil and Gazprom are traveling; Exactly so many people to surround his giant and squeal with a close ring, his masculin is an amres; And a dozen proven Lada Kalin.

Whatever the "Lada" they have, then "viburnum".

And the country in the roadsides - those, and not the same - observes with a grin, how this motorcade crawls into taiga autumn, and puts the pictures on the Internet.

"Rus', where are you going?" - the poet would ask.

We know where. And do not ask.

09/06/2010

Provocative

I’m drinking wine, whether I go to the cinema Il grunted by an obedient lyre-how much I remember myself (and I remember for a long time), for some reason I provoke everyone. And although it seems to endure the seal and does not disdain to me the television camera - I must constantly shout that they haven’t killed me yet. Despite the availability of Father's graves and on the way, the country has been traveled around - the collectively reduced Nizhny Tagil does not consider himself my homeland: without having time to arrange special problems - and we can, there are many flashes? -For some reason, I provoke them with all, without sticking out my nose, without saying words. I have not entered into a polemic here for a long time, for I know from my own experience: what kind of feelings they have - nest! They are offended by all that, and at every step, a series of accusations, attracted by the ears, awaits me: I go wrong, and I have called the wrong way, even though I haven’t called anywhere for a long time! As if they wear a writ of execution for me. They do not forgive a joke or fiction. And always I am not clean enough for them - because I did not wash in the blood.

And the zealots of faith with the tails of the pipe! Here is the people - to calm him down: they insult their subtle feelings in whom there is no stupid and slave. To object to them at least in a word - the Lord is to swim: everyone drops the zealots of the old. And where did they come from in Rus', these ghosts of Count Uvarov? At the pogroms, feelings are so gentle and thin - tremble, infidels! - Like Stenka, the killers of the Persian princess, which she looked like that, probably. And anyone who got out of the rut-or woke up, in any case,-the insulted feelings, by the way, were poked in the nose, rather smelly. They are voted, insane than the Grandfather of the Pichot, inevitable of the gastric colic - they did not dare to object to them for a long time, so they are bragging, eagles.

Thank God, with the coming of the new Godin - the last ice floes melted a little - it turned out that I was not alone here: provocateurs run in packs. They volunteered, as if Russia - their house (it is, but I'm afraid to get carried away). Their provocation lies in what is unknown, what is the provocation. Here, for example, they go to the avenue where lilac and acacia are raging - there is a mysterious, strange effect: they just go - and all the provocation! And it’s not that I hal the satrap regime, but the reason seems to be guessed: they all feel this layer by stranger, so they cringe them all, like from incense. It seems that they are not threatened with pure ponds: entertainment, rest, vacation ... They just went out - shame. Laughed - debauchery. Spick teas - provocation! This increased agility is amazing, this nonsense is in full cup: soon it will really not be revealed the mouth, so as not to touch their subtle soul. I’m afraid, and the bird cherry in white with the illegal flower of visa -free bloom overshadows the Dangerous Tu and behaves with the bumpy challenge. The cherry provokes-the basso also has something seditious about her ... The dead generally provokes everything that lives and blooms with impunity.

And according to a strict account, they can be understood, because all this thaw of white manages to easily cancel them, doing nothing at all.

05/13/2012

Tango. From the cycle "Start of winter"

When badly, squeezing it and spray
will begin to change the lace of December,
Another bitch will say: "What a boredom!" -
But this is happiness, in essence.

There was no rot. It sounds everywhere: "In the gun!"
The snowdrifts hid puddles, Renault, Peugeot.
Snow hung like the Lord thought
From snow dust it became almost fresh.

Когда династья скукожится к ноябрю
and autocracy to the cries "Kirdyk to the king!"
He will begin to fall with a bread in dry leaves,
then this is happiness, I tell you!

I remember this. Fyal, but excitement
He ate half the light before my eyes.
A minute passed, I realized that it was a trouble - -
But it was cool, I must tell you.

The next morning - hello! - Everything will be turned into sodom,
And voluptuousness, owning cattle,
I will flood the understanding, but Lord, I remember:
At first happiness, and so on everything later!

When the wrist forgets, which means pulse,
I will close the mouth and I am firmly awakened
To embarrass, oh, child, this does not need me -
All this is happiness, even happiness plus!

Then, dear horseman, as always,
The full ass and trouble will come
And yet, ink to scare us to others than:
It is black Friday to them, we are a medium.

01/28/2012