Аля Кудряшева - Нет, не то, чтобы надоели, но утомили... - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

No, it’s not that they tired, but they tired, you won’t leave a step away from them if you serve a penny. I risk stagger to death in their dense world, in this viscous, with a step on passion and night whirl. In a hot, sweaty, like a sheepskin, in a hot house, in the throat, inter-membranous, affectionate words, I thought to cut them out in a halzedon, in re-minor, with a stinking in each share, and through them there are thousands of kilowatts.

And she grows me so eagerly in her palms, so that the chain does not prevent her from kissing her.

No, it’s not that they tired, but how much is possible, the third, the first main one, I am neither thu-gu, I am detained at their unsophisticated customs by hand border guards and the greyhounds of the lips, it is not allowed to be superfluous in the shimmer of the flesh, to climb into their mouths (which according to Classics of the color of ROT), remember how it was there, the myth of my wife and lot, legs together, arms to the sides, look forward, now evening, windows in fairy -tale binding, I will return when I hear the rustle of the coat in flight, she takes from the table beret.

No, it’s not that you can, but it is very painful to turn away, smile and let go, then I don’t have enough balls of volleyball and ginger candies to save them. After all, she already idolized someone, sewed her dresses, he sometimes came to visit, I remember too much how she spoke to me, mixing with tears into a handful. But while she laughs, maintaining herself that tomorrow will come true tomorrow only. I look at them sadly and a little severely. Maybe it’s just enviable to me, the right to word, to observe silhouettes in the slightly purple, clouded windows of their gingerbread dwellings.

__________

And we have December, but around

Raw and hot.

I go home and hang

Head on the hook.

The kettle boils, on the windows of scribbling

Strange letters.

Lord, if you are suddenly in touch, -

How is she without me?

Lord, the best that you invented

Made from the rib.

Blown, verified and issued,

Tea on the lips interferes with exhalation

Warm silver.

Lord, give her the radiant paths,

The best of yours.

If we suddenly calculated for two,

I will manage, but so that she is honest

Happiness for us two.

So that she does not see black

In the rose of your winds.

So that she at least once forgot about damn

Evil your metro.

To pass her slums,

Frost, burning and silt,

To play Michael and to

Gabriel played along.

Lord, I spoil everything with words

Truth is not in speeches

In the spring, when the kidneys swell,

Maybe you will check the mail

And read the whiteness of the shoulder,

And her cheek is hot

And she bites the chain

In order not to scream.

______

In order not to splash out - I cover my forehead with my hand, constructing a cup from my palm, the morning was warmed by a brown fluffy cloud to a sunny, low chest. I do not understand what was with me before him, as I lived, and in whose I slept houses. If he calls, I will jump to the sky, if he doesn’t call, I’ll call it myself. The world is wide open, on the leash of the silver, God dozed, tired of teaching me. If you stroke the warm ridge of the curb-a well-fed-fed-fed asphalt rumbling something savage-Latin-American to breathe for a moment-and you live barely. The girl why are you walking in a helmet, huh? So that the head does not burst with happiness. The rivers are blue, somewhere in the distance a dreary fat seagull fits hoarsely blues. If he loves me, then I am happy, if not - well, I love him.

We will still be stolen in non -residential walls in a violent wind, but now in the morning everything that we made in common is a tart black warmth between the woven hands.

So I go on a curve, like a ray, with God in my palm, with sparks instead of eyes.

_____

Maybe everything will really succeed.

The main thing is that the chain does not break.