< The anonymous author of number 1
Sense something that you know how to repair the road
so that the straight running somewhere further,
if you yourself do not want to go
and on the steps of the porch without hypocrisy
smoking. I do not quit? Words are transformed into lines.
The lines are woven into yarn and knit tightly.
By the way, poetry - means the right, among other things
travel on a dead-end branches.
I why this knowledge of the shape of wings,
takeoff trajectory, the strength of the wind,
if the Scourge as a lame old mare,
morally obsolete, in short - a retro.
Weave a web of lines exploding from yarns.
Dirty rags trudge wings behind.
Again, does not rhyme - ashamed to go out of the house,
I see, too, sitting, not going anywhere.
Old book of problems. Terms are clear too:
Two of the points of each other going forward.
What was invented and when the route is laid?
I smell sage-mathematician was Rogue labeled.
Pulls fly, sewing up holes in rags words.
I would like to call out - well, you're sitting ?! Run away!
Lines of poetry decayed skin into the blood broke.
I am falling, falling, falling ... down, down.
Can not you see the absurdity of a weak shadow
collapsed something for the far edge of the forest?
This poetry exactly at the point of intersection,
hot body pressed against the cold rails.