For me, art - the road. (C)

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For me, art - the road. (C)







Two artists, for me, two discoveries are two ways to pour out what lives inside of you that is you at this point in time ...








Before dawn - one cigarette and eight pages:
On the happy ending jammed. Tightly. Muffled.
October die - burst birds
Diagonally bisecting the rainy gray belly.

A mate has turned out so ... at least not ready.
You do not love mate, but ran out of coffee and whiskey.
On the railing of the balcony dancing alien love -
Whether drunk three sheets, or simply a fan of disco.

You spent your - I remember - a week ago,
At the fingertips not dried blood and ink.
A stranger twists love booty to the beat and not out of tune -
That's fool. And yet ... your gink worse.

Flushed apple autumn falls down
If you want to bite - cup your palms as soon as possible.
A stranger love settles neighbor cornice.
Do not be afraid, my darling, you will not touch it now.


Svetlana Shirankova.
36 years. Lives in Moscow (Russia).
Statement: "Graduated Institute, got married and had a daughter ...
Dearly loves family, cat and their own bad habits.
According to rumors, writes. Seems to poetry. "
Svetlana winner of the national literary award "The Poet of the Year" in 2012.

Personal site of Svetlana





In black - slimmer. In white - innocence.
In the red ... no, probably not necessary in red.
As it would be desirable to light and long,
If a poem or a novel old:
Letters, vignettes and satin binding.

And whirled furiously on three accounts,
Inhale through the time of exhalation is no question.
Lips are dry, throat completely to hell,
In the mirror in the morning you will look - oh, who's there?
However, it does not matter - it is necessary to run a meeting,

Dosporit need to catch, to drink, drive,
Kiss enough to preserve Sore pain.
In Peter? Maybe in Kiev? And if Chekhov?
Mom has asked to buy nuts,
Meat, sour cream and a kilo of beans.

Month, another - and the evening will begin at eight.
Coffee and ?Dunhill?, sleep, as usual, in the negative.
Enough to cry, no one is cast -
This fatigue. Or a bad fall.
Or ... well, tears - not the tsimes,

And the "Martini" - too worthless eraser.
Ended his life? Girlfriend, you're in the mood!
Throw pills Take care of your wrist.
Asters smell faded past happiness ...
Dry - and start collecting herbarium.





***
Although tear to shreds, though inside out Turn out -
Not to save, so that there is simply not hold.
She lives in the eyes of gold sincerity,
That much harder shots and knife.

In her nightmares - the smell of wine and pity,
At insomnia - taste of honey and milk.
Will you cry? drink cognac? beg? - Please.
Only silence is better drink more wine glass.

Hopelessness breathes apple - to soreness of the mouth,
Blue moon shone warmly.
Her fate meted out for a long time and is assigned
Inventory tag-lily on her shoulder.

But where do you - throw a backpack, do not rush, plenty of time.
Put in place the key ... I said - come on!
This is it - road sign, windmills
And other people's lives, lived through.

And you - July evening in the garden under the cherry trees.
Cigarette, tremor fingers bitten mouth.
It hurts the hell become superfluous, but ...
Be patient, it may take. Or maybe ... no, go away.





When will break my last breath
(And, perhaps, exhale - quiet on the decline of)
I will be a book of his own poems
In the battered paperback,

Donated by someone with a drunken
On the evening in the "hotbed of culture."
Her / I will open a couple of times
And put it in the closet to the other waste paper

To touch, like beads in his hand,
Herself - letter by letter, line by line,
Biting through your fingers to the bone,
And fight in single bars of the cage,

Paper - but the more insulting captured.
Oh, the luxury hand, breaking the shackles!
Breath, straighten your shoulders, stand up from his knees,
Invest yourself in one word,

And dart - trusting in the pupil,
Poisoned grain in someone else's arable land.
Here's dry, rocky, hot -
In this land and go to bed scared,
Not something that grows through the heat and snow,
Podzol soul raping roots.

... But I'm trying to push Escape
From the heart, swellable wound.

And when, finally, inside blossoming poppies,
And when the mouth covered with salt sounds
I am silent deafening as a brass band.
Someone in white - angel, Dr. Lee, the barber -
Corrects tablecloth, carefully wash their hands
And me on a silver spoon eating breakfast


Artist Dan McCaw.
"I use a woman as a symbol of humanity. It embodies all that is good. Her face is not defined to represent how little we know about ourselves not to mention others. Nudes, distorted and exaggerated, makes us realize how few of us are willing to stand naked (figure of speech), exposing all of our flaws and weaknesses. For me, art - the road, I'm going to find themselves in the hope of true. I think that it is a long trip .... "

"Here's a rough translation tvorchekogo manifesto of the artist, which no one confused!
His works are written in a very thick layer of opaque paint, but they shine !!!! If you examine each work, we can see:
NO SMALL PARTS ONLY great shape. He seemed to carve
the works of colored marble. This artist must-long
considered to come to understand how to create a great form
on a flat surface to create a very powerful !!! The rest of the wizard
not interested! Without an understanding of the large form is impossible to learn to paint. ".