Откос с думи...

                                       /...не с куршуми.../

                           Поезия,

                                      проза,

                                               невроза в жанра.

                            О, стига!

                                      Приберете миманса,

                            да реди пасианси.

                                      Един се издига,

                                          а другият бачка...

                           Петачка.

                                         Животът надига...

                                                    Чаша.

                                                          Отрова.

                                                              Смърт?

                            Не!

                                    Прокоба.

                                                 За света?

                             Казват: "Нощта е утроба."

                                            Самотата те чака:

                            "При мрака"

                                            Спасител?

                               Разстреляй хашлака!

                                           Той крие

                               вик, шепот, хартия

                                           и думи-

                                               глуми,

                                                   безумия

                               от любов и омраза.

                                                  Страда!

                                От какво

                                                 и защо?

                                Човекът.

                                         Страда.

                                  ВО ВЕКА ! ! !

                                        ЗАБРАНЕНО Е !!!

                               Къде е Човекът????

                                         Забранен е Човека!!!!

                                Нека.

                                        Продай го Човека!

                                Няма клиенти.

                                          Пациенти

                                          и оди,

                                                  балади,

                                                       тиради.

                                Синът й умря..

                                                     Епично,

                                                         лирично

                                                            или драматично?

                                От свръхдоза.

                                                          Заспа.

                                Не бил в норматива?

                                                      Не бива!

                                Ни крачка извън норматива.

                                                     Сложно е.

                                                             Не плачи!

                                 Туберкулозно е.

                                                             Не храчи!

                                Залагай на стихосложението.

                                                        Ямб, хорей......

                                 - Недей бе! Недей!

                                                         Поетът умря.

                                      А ????

                                                  Да!!!!

                                                         Изплю си кръвта.

                                 "" Тази вечер Витоша е тъй загъдъчна

                                      и нежна като теменужен остров

                                      в лунно сребърни води.""

                                                 Глух е

                                                            и музикант,

                                                                           и свири.

                                              Бетовен???

                                                   Не. Не е !

                                                           Този пасе овце.

                                              Селяк свири на дудук,

                                                           близо  оттук.

                                               Селякът имитира.

                                                            Бетовен???

                                               Себе си имитира,

                                                            на баира.

                                                А Бетовен умира,

                                                             бавно,

                                                                   безславно,

                                                                         отдавна....

                                                 Тара- та - та.....

                                                          А ???

                                                                Да!!!

                                                                   Превъплатиха го.

                                                 Тимпани.

                                                                Там,

                                                                      бомбите

                                                                                 падат.

                                                   Бим,

                                                             бам,

                                                                      буууууум.

                                                  Трагично,

                                                             комично,

                                                                   цинично.

                                                   Без сърце.  Без ум.

                                                    А Гооляямото изкуство?

                                                     Епично!

                                                            Ах, магия...

                                                   !!! Не на мене тия!!!

                                                  Изкуството

                                                          Е РАНА ГОЛЯМА

                                                  и друга, такава няма.

                                                           Нощ е.

                                                                  Свърталище

                                                 на поети, полови атлети

                                                                    и безполови

                                                 но пак атлети.

                                                 На поетки, кокетки и т.н.

                                                  Критик,

                                                                лирик,

                                                                        патетик-

                                                  тримата заедно.

                                                  НЕмам думи!

                                                                 Един си измислих,

                                                  да си говорим,

                                                                   нощем,

                                                                        телепатично,

                                                     т. е. наум.

                                                            Безумци.

                                                                     Глухонеми.

                                                                              Дилеми

                                                                                   и те неми.

                                                         ЖИВОТ.

                                                              Лудостта не спира!

                                                         ОБИЧ,

                                                                     ЗАЩО СЕ УМИРА ?

                                                         А то....

                                                                 Какво?

                                                                          Бъди точна!

                                                       Хората казват:

                                                                        -  Точна като смъртта.

                                                       Майка ми точно в един и десет

                                                       умряла през нощта.....

                                                       Сега е нощ.

                                                                  Един и десет е

                                                      и по света се раждат деца.

                                                                 Много деца!!!!

                                                       В утрото ще блеснат  деца,

                                                                като слънца.

                                                       Живот,

                                                                     не спирай!!!

                                                      НАЗДРАВЕ!!!

                                                                    Не пия!

                                                      Наздраве.

                                                                     Без чаша.

                                                      Наздраве!

                                                                      Без бира.

                                                    Наздраве!

                                                 /Вярвам в това за слънцата

                                                   и за децата. Не го пробутвам,

                                                    за да ми мине творбата/

                                                   Но дойде

                                                                   вече

                                                                            Мигът.

                                                  Идва Краят.

                                                             Времето спря.

                                                   Точка.

                                                 Аз съм зле с правописа,

                                                 затова ЗАПЕТАЯ

                                                            ще сложа накрая,,,,,,,

                         ,