What are you complaining about?

Grows
express
building pace.
In the brigades
in the drums -
Thousands.
And only,
like cancer on the shallows,
without topics
prose writer
Sadly hears.
Otmash
at four
five years,
but this
little poet.
In the back of the head
in the curly
the poet is scratched,
and that
under the curls -
and no.
Cuts
bullet
countryside
fist
drilled, violent.
But, you see,
no topics available
our
the novelists.
In two cleansings
sweep
from the republic

trash

,

kick
and the gangster
and sublimation,
and here
at the ramp
sad director -
they say, no
neither by that,
nor collisions.
Poet,
and a prose writer,
and the drummer withered,
waited
muses are more convenient.
Do the sons
muses
puff
some
building everyday life?
Soon
and residues
mermaid memories
electrics
and Dnieper
and the Volkhovs, -
and art
lives still
fairy tales of the nurse,
going
from kings of peas.
"He and she",
yes "the moon"
yes, plus -
background
from revolutionary
heroes and mobs ...
Literature
and whines,
and swells like a flux,
and it seems,
I'll see,
read -
and drowned
boredom
and from grief.
Get off
from the sky,
transcendental resident!
Shoot
the mantle of antiquity!
Strongest
ties
connect the muse,
as a horse, -
in the daily routine.
Forget
about your
about the sonnet and the opus,
unravel
broader
eye,
aiming
him
on the factory building,
set
him
on the wall gas!
Forgive me, comrade,
I will express myself rudely, -
but the earth
snap your hands,

so that the troubadours

did not
"Pipes ...
times -
pipe fools ".
1929