MUSE 

The masks, the bright dresses, the costumes are prejudiced,
facial expressions, body mimicry in motion.
Dark room, furniture, antique parquet.
This chaos, of scattered things, will be able to get a hold of the thoughts.

This mess in my skull, in my thoughts.
Makes me think to multiply my numbers.
How not to become one of the discarded from life.
Filling my mind to the brim with new meaning.

Every second my brain thinks of a new step.
While the body is maimed, injured and scarred.
The soul demands nourishment. But why feed yourself?
With drugs that accelerate, or put on top of the pitch.

A mixture of euphoria and fear tears you apart.
Many people enjoy a few hours of frenzied happiness!
And once again the old sidewalk is pounded by white sneakers,
looking for something that will answer many questions.

ANOTHER MINUTE, ANOTHER, ANOTHER JOLT.
A TEXT IS BORN WITH A SET OF NEW LINES, AND HERE IS THE BOTTOM LINE.
AND THERE'S AN IDEA SITTING THERE INSIDE OF ME.
THAT THROUGH THE SPEAKERS spreads through the veins.

In a concussed muse, crippled by bastards.
We've been asking for a line for three days now.
And hey, just a vacation, or better yet, to the hospital.
To prioritize the authors, and to nurse her nerves.

From grief or for happiness she is torn to pieces.
The work day and night, and all not without her participation.
Some need a mood, some need something killer.
It's like a ritual to remind her of herself.

It comes at night. No! Just tonight!
It's a lot of work! An important client! It's serious!
Gone for a week comes in the morning,
a teddy bear's breath under her eyes, and she's stoned again.

Dirty, dirty, exhausted, on nerves.
Spitting out the leftovers from last night on the paper,
Going to bed. But this is only the beginning of new lines.
"It's all the fault of the ellipsis at the end...   

ONE MORE MINUTE, ONE MORE, ONE MORE PUSH.
AND THE TEXT IS BORN WITH A SET OF NEW LINES AND THAT'S THE END OF IT.
AND THERE I AM AND THERE'S AN IDEA SITTING INSIDE.
THAT THERE IS A DYNAMIC SPIRIT ON VENAMES.    

Scared to hide in the darkness of damp cellars.
And her assertive seekers, for all is not enough for them.
They put her on drugs and turn her into a whore.
Not realizing that for her the light will go out one day.

The numbers were flying. She, exhausted, studied me.
Day by day, week by week, skillfully.
Her pretexts not boldly wounded soul and body
Till the time the texts saw the limit.  

I tortured her for hours, hoping to get an idea.
She tried to hide in the streets of an imaginary empire.
Screaming, begging for help. But her ears could not hear, late at night.
The words that bled into lines.


Squeezed out all the juices as if it were urgent.
Under psychological pressure they gave out thoughts ahead of time.
And in the exact order of moments in my life,
I watched as her ideas poured onto blank sheets.

ONE MORE MINUTE, ONE MORE, ONE MORE PUSH.
THE TEXT WOULD BE BORN WITH A SET OF NEW LINES AND THERE IT WOULD BE.
AND THERE WHERE I AM AND THERE INSIDE SITS AN IDEA.
THAT THAT WAS DYNAMY is spreading through the veins.  

Translated with www.DeepL.com/Translator (free version)

SHRB - Чук - Муза

DiOne - Mine

DiOne - Nuclear Winter

DiOne - Black tears (Черные Слезы)

DiOne - muse (Муза)

17.07.2018

19.07.2018

One Dub

DAWN

York

I have been writing poems for a long time, as well as writing electronic music in various programs. Although the education is technical and work in a completely different sphere, this interest is not how I can not leave. Unfortunately in our life it is not always possible to get what you want and ways along with circumstances do not always lead to the goal that we set ourselves many years ago. . All the best and let your dreams do not interfere