Артем Тюльников
Сложные стихи на английском
You raise the roof, attract attention mocking winter driving a presumptuous cabriolet.
Combining what is incompatible you’ll get a pattern blatant on your macramé.
Our clash will open you a path through my archway.
“You’ve picked a ball quite thick and obstinate for your croquet”.
Your wicked quest, your words you should unsay,
Or you’ll find your afterlife blasé.
Your task is blind while claims are pure hearsay.
You shouldn’t have gotten underway.
Another wretched rot for me to slay.
You, humans, are so outré.
Why walk along a carriageway?
Is it your common sense that takes an everlasting holiday?
Some utter foolishness is in your DNA.
You are coerced to walk in circles down an annular footway.
And in your search it’s your debacle that will make headway.
So you’ll sink down to the bottom like a large stingray.
One’s journey ends when passion hits a cay.
When there are no alignments on a ley.
When knowledge gained becomes passé.
When all the sweet dreams of the past become abhorrence of today.
Your judgement of deep-rooted matters by their surface is distrait.
Existence is a clever joke, all action is wordplay.
You’ve been in an unconscious haze from here till Tuesday.
Those dreams surreal under an impervious duvet…
I’d stake my life on it, you won’t make up leeway.
“Quit your ventriloquism, you, mangy popinjay.
I’m sick and tired of your deviant horseplay.
You are ubiquitous enough to know I’m not born yesterday.
But still you are a cripple who conveys ideas just the way they do it in a classical ballet.
Your biased notions are unable to perform even an amateur’s sashay.
I welcome detriment with my arms splay.
Of all the hails there hasn’t been a singular conge.
It greets me with evisceration while I face it with a “hey”.
No matter what the aftermath is, I’ll take it with “hurray!”
Its long accumulated fury finds an outlet through my spillway.
Is it the very evil that is shoaled in this venomous raceway?
If so, it’s the almighty bane of men that stands in my doorway…
No…You’re in my head, you’re ethereal as if you were a fay.
Your ravings are but ornaments of rage on my tranquil and silent appliqué.
My entity is decorated with rebellious inlay.
No matter how stiff you fix my thinking it’ll still be flyaway”.
“Now tell me how much do your convictions weigh?
One wouldn’t file a full dossier!
Your thoughts are unassailable, aren’t they?
They are against all regulations, they refute any folkway,
They serve your right, they won’t betray.
If you can’t stop, then there’ll be hell to pay!
Embarked hackneyed belief, en route to God knows what you are a stowaway.
Stay low lest they should throw you straight into some coarse, behind-the-bars coupe.
The serene state of yours it is that I shall flay.
Until I reach your grief searing directly lay by lay.
I’ll see you waterlogged once I’ve cleared the path to gley.
My composition for you with a tempo andante.
Directed antithetically dolce.
Or if you will “Le temps frappé”.
Your laminated qualities are but components for a virulent parfait.
Those deviations, incoherence…why have you had another cutaway?
Filled to the brim with bifurcations, is that supposed to be your honed screenplay?
One simply cannot lead his life without byplay!
A book’s no good with fickle a donnee.
Unless it’s being written by the louche Vicar of Bray.
Your acting’s great, I guess I’ll send you a chrysanthemum nosegay.
I’ll rip you inside out, your guts will moan and whimper “nay”…!
I’ll cut you out then shake you up so I could feel your insides ricochet.
Your hope won’t breed you impudent offspring because her nature I shall spay.
I’ll knit your bones via technique of aberrant crochet.
I’ll feed your flesh to fiendish dogs, their heads trey.
Although I’m sure they’ll choke on this fillet.
Expunge ambivalence or I’ll make your extremes meet each other in a mortal swordplay.
Together they are detrimental but futile per se.
Who do you think would be the last to cry “touche”?
The one who’s grabbed a gun instead of an epee!
If they abstain, I’ll link them up using your spine as a causeway.
And with a scattered avalanche of dread your minds at last I’m gonna spray.
My taste is exquisite for I am a refined gourmet.
You are invited in the form of food for my soiree.
I’d drench you in some fiery shame, ignite it and we’ll get a marvellous flambé.
Or should I freeze your temper to the bones so that you’d make a fabulous sorbet?
“I could preserve you in sweet lust so that your brain shall be glace.
Well, I’d rather crash your pride and soul to relish in your life puree.
My mouth waters, and the tickling of my nostrils you are so unable to belay!
The browning of you mind has been commenced via sauté.
Your remnants I’ll drag underwater so that carnivore fish could have a cold buffet.”
Recalcitrance of mine was vanquished straightaway.
My troops succumbed to arguments that I myself could not gainsay.
Our ship stumbled as though water turned to heavily baked clay.
The greenish liquid became pasty and was served impeccably al dente.
