Когда на тебя согнали болванов,
а ты им — девушки, молодые люди,
ты им вещь, а они решили сорвать, сговор,
и никто им, некому полоснуть,
никто про тебя при жизни.
А еще у кого-то глаза ясней, сердце,
все понимаешь, сплоченные им не простят.
И ты сразу бы к ним, голос хочет пресечься,
но нельзя, нельзя.
Почему не знаю, знаю нельзя.
Вот, дорогой восприимчивый Феликс,
нам ваши глаза ваши уши больше чем вам наши речи.
Феликс, Феликс, почему ты меня понимаешь,
а эти, моей крови люди,
а в этих, моей крови людях —

Евгений Харитонов

………………………….

My love for you allows me to pray to the spirit of eternal beauty and tenderness mirrored in your eyes or fling you down under me on that softy belly of yours and fuck you up behind, like a hog riding a sow, glorying in the very stink and sweat that rises from your arse, glorying in the open shape of your upturned dress and white girlish drawers and in the confusion of your flushed cheeks and tangled hair. It allows me to burst into tears of pity and love at some slight word, to tremble with love for you at the sounding of some chord or cadence of music or to lie heads and tails with you feeling your fingers fondling and tickling my ballocks or stuck up in me behind and your hot lips sucking off my cock while my head is wedged in between your fat thighs, my hands clutching the round cushions of your bum and my tongue licking ravenously up your rank red cunt. I have taught you almost to swoon at the hearing of my voice singing or murmuring to your soul the passion and sorrow and mystery of life and at the same time have taught you to make filthy signs to me with your lips and tongue, to provoke me by obscene touches and noises, and even to do in my presence the most shameful and filthy act of the body. You remember the day you pulled up your clothes and let me lie under you looking up at you while you did it? Then you were ashamed even to meet my eyes.

You are mine, darling, mine! I love you. All I have written above is only a moment or two of brutal madness. The last drop of seed has hardly been squirted up your cunt before it is over and my true love for you, the love of my verses, the love of my eyes for your strange luring eyes, comes blowing over my soul like a wind of spices. My prick is still hot and stiff and quivering from the last brutal drive it has given you when a faint hymn is heard rising in tender pitiful worship of you from the dim cloisters of my heart.

Nora, my faithful darling, my seet-eyed blackguard schoolgirl, be my whore, my mistress, as much as you like (my little frigging mistress! My little fucking whore!) you are always my beautiful wild flower of the hedges, my dark-blue rain-drenched flower.

JIM

James Joyce, Letter to Nora Barnacle, 02.12.1909, Dublin.

Ну нас же предупреждал Оруэлл. Просто с тех пор придумали биологическое оружие, и появился смысл мстить за Бэйба, который вежливый поросёнок.

Apparently we had been warned by Orwell. It’s just that since 1945 biological weapons have been invented and the need to avenge Babe the Gallant Pig recognized.