Читать интересную книгу Сложные стихи на английском - Артем Тюльников

Affection’s something that we couldn’t even feign.

For us, it was as real as to “set on fire hurricane.”

As easy as to swim with your leg shackled to an iron ball and chain.

We neither acted nor did we abstain,

Blew hot and cold just like butane.

It’s either this or that, two forms together won’t obtain.

They will conduct against themselves a military campaign.

The volatility was not that simple to sustain.

Landslides of yours caused so much pain.

Day after day – the same low-pitched refrain.

Oh, gravity, your forces one cannot detain.

The party crashed, your whims are guests I failed to entertain.

Their sharpened talons flaying me still in my head remain.

I slid into the pit of wretchedness as far as I could ascertain.

Then came abrasion that was all in vain,

And pointed all the blunt I wanted to retain.

Facelift’s not what I wanted to attain.

My psyche’s skewed and steep and inhospitable terrain.

You made a lion with no mane.

I’m but a sow that has just found her own piglets overlain.

A life boat that has no coxswain,

A glacier, tarnished by moraine.

My roar is loud and so vain,

As though I’m water that engulfs floodplain.

I was expelled from my domain

Thanks to rebellious coup de main.

They banished me, their former thane,

Ambiguous and in some sense immane.

On their lips is bitterness of the romaine.

Why do they ward themselves with purslane?

My pelt cannot resist the stain,

As though it were a bloating blain.

The one that does not let me gain

A key to match the lock that holds a chain

That chokes me down to restrain

As if it is as toxic as henbane,

Manifestation of a pure bane.

I’m repellent that attracts migraine.

If we were fleas then I would be fleabane.

If you appeal to cattle then I’ll appear as murrain.

It is that easy to explain.

Allegedly my esoteric reign

Is hard to take without disdain

In all those realms that form a plain

Where drought has never felt my rain.

And at an altitude of plane

Being a real tramontane, -

A bird that’ll never find its skein

Or in the caverns deep where I’ve once lain

Watched them deplete my ore vein

Striving for former might and main

I saw the land of withered grain,

I came across a peneplain.

It smashed my stand by giving me a cane -

To walk I had to be a whooping crane.

I thought it was to maintain

The knowledge that was not arcane.

But things they’ve built I call insane.

My railway’s weak to hold their train.

Their minor freight can bend my crane.

That human waste does not accept my main.

My strength is fizzing like champagne.

Your grubs are on my sugarcane.

Even direction of my wind is inhumane,

It can’t be shown by your vane.

Things are tendentious through my windowpane,

Way more surreal than mundane.

As I could scent the odorless methane.

And where’s no way I might see twain.

Detour a mountain and I’ll burst it open treading submontane.

I’m all alone, I struggle not to appertain

To any fraction as they’re all inane.

A crime for which myself I can’t arraign.

If I keep up I won’t be harnessed to your wain.

Which means that I’ll be separated by your ominous membrane.

There’s left one thing that can’t be slain…

It’s havoc – or acceptance of free rein.

Where temperance is on the wane

With amorality engrain

And desolation underlain.

Debauchery is their swain

While loathing is demimondaine.

To utter chaos those damned aspects are germane.

The only thought born in my brain

Can sprout rifts upon my lane.

So it’ll be like sprinting with an ankle sprain,

Or fishing with a ragged seine,

Or trying to catch your image in a mirror that has known no tain.

It’s something I’m contriving to contain.

Since stimuli fail to response, I can’t complain.

As my disguise is soaked with halothane -

The thing’s addictive as cocaine.

It won’t get through this wrap, this cellophane.

And after all I can’t be fain.

To do the things that desecrate my fane.

Just like a trickster who could never deign

To say: “You have been strangled by chicane

My art’s your trust and my legerdemain”.

With ease my path I preordain.

I’ll always be non-flammable propane.

My grip is that of polyurethane

To travel on against the grain…

I’m out of breath, though run amain.

Leaving the trench of my champaign,

Trying to save what you profane.

Oh, what a hopeless scatterbrain!

To nihilism you are a counterstain.

That is the time when I under great strain

Watch everything go down the drain.

Oneness of Two Is Halved Once They Are Turned Moiré

A crew of order and shambolic disarray -

Two factions that’ll never stop their fray,

One’s in the lead after another’s clandestine endplay -

Perpetual, skewed and so agley -

A blatantly recurrent, maddening stairway.

It’s reminiscent of a sinuous byway,

Or rather a refracted ray.

And surface flat becomes a brae.

The foundation proves to have a thin backstay.

The main road infiltrates subway,

Where conscience is too firm to slip away,

And chaos strives for holding sway.

Waging a battle on a tray

That will be served to feed “Dismay”.

Was ordered to reveal love’s hideaway.

We were to find a needle in a heap of hay,

To go against the grains of time and leave unscathed with walkaway.

To claim permissiveness the order of the day,

To greet the very Caesar with “Ave”!

“The yet to be discovered system in the Milky