The rest of his poems were in the same depressing-empty manner, and after him came my old friend Igor Canareikin. The public adored him. He was a local star. Igor read a dozen of his poems (it should be noted that he had mostly nothing), then he announced a short pause and introduced his friend “Misha Rain”.
- Natasha, he said "Misha rain"? Really? What is wrong with them?
- And what is wrong with us, we are here for what, tell me?
- Well, Igor, well done. but his friends, of course, yes. I would only go hanging with them.
Igor went to the bar to ask for a cup of tea and remembered about us.
- Well, how are you guys? like?
“You are good, but your companions, in my opinion, are something not very good.” (out of the corner of my ear at this moment I heard how “Misha Rain” was reading about how worms want to escape from the ground into the light).
- No, Artem, you listen carefully, there are very interesting thoughts.
I decided to listen carefully.
- "...those who will live after will not remember
our names, our songs will not sing.
we will rot in the abyss for them, we will not be resurrected.
like worms under the foundation of a house..."
- Still not.
Igor almost finished his tea when two girls approached us. These were his Petersburg friends. He decided to introduce us:
- Get acquainted, this is Artem, he writes stories and poems, and his girlfriend, Natasha. And this is Katya and the light. Katya is a journalist and a light artist.
- Yes, I graduated from the journalism department, - interrupted Igor Kate.
- And I recently finished a new picture - interrupted them both light.
- And I’ll finish everything at all now - I blurted out and realized that there were no football fans, and my reference to memes about Cherdantsev was completely past. This was confirmed by awkward silence.
The journalist Katya was in blue jeans, boots and a jacket with rolled-up sleeves, apparently this image emphasized that she was always at work and was ready to rush to work every minute. The light artist shone with large boots of timberland type, a long gray dress and a harness made in the style of a sodomize, for some reason worn on top of a knitted dress. Her outfit seemed strange to me. Natasha was also overwhelmed, she realized that after my failure we won’t drown any deeper, and therefore asked:
- But are such harnesses worn on top of dense knitted dresses?
- How else are they worn?
- Well, naked body for all sorts of specific sex adventures, no?
- No
- Well, there is no way.
Igor finished his tea and went on stage. His friends ordered wines and sat down on our ears about what they are doing interesting projects. Fortunately, this was not for long, because Natasha and I all showed that we did not really need it, and actively began to listen to what “Misha Rain” was broadcasting from the scene. Katya with the light left.
- Natasha, you know, I recently read one tweet. "If they say" choose: to giggle under the eggplant sedan in the pad for a day or listen to how creative women are cracking, "I'll run after the sportsmen." and this is exactly what happened here the last 5 minutes.
Natasha agreed, and Igor returned to the scene. He began to perform joint works with his friends, their words and manner of reading poetry poured such sadness on me that he wanted to curl up, cover himself with a blanket and not leave the house for a week.
- Artem. for me, an hour of poetry is already too much. Let's go from here.
- I agree, come on.
We threw on jackets and went into the fresh air - the air in which no one read poetry. It was wonderful. But nevertheless, the atmosphere of the Igrik bar continued to prevail on us, and we sadly stomped towards the Ligovskiy side. Along the way, we met a restaurant in which it was decided to eat, and at the same time have a little drink. I ordered a steak and an Irish stout, Natasha - Caesar, a couple of some shots and whiskey with cola. She was less experienced in poetry, she was covered more feasibly so that the shots were health-restoring.
- Artem, why do people who come to listen to this poetry also pay for it? Why are they so with themselves?
- I do not know, I can’t really understand. But don’t think - there are good authors, good poems. It’s just that now there are too many “poets”, and they know not talented, but more active, those who seek to regularly speak and read. Although probably it has always been so in everything.
- Well, just staying there for 1 hour is already a depression for a month, and not because they touch some strings of the soul, excite consciousness and turn thoughts in the head upside down, but stupidly because it is so depressing, I want to die.
- I understand what you're talking about. All these "black roses fall down" - the most powerful anti-advertising of poetry, normal people will not listen to this. As well as snot with sugar about "You are my lap, you are my oyster".
- And from this, I almost vomited.
- Okay, let's leave it. Will we do anything further?
- No, I want to go to bed, inside me something seems to have died, let's go home.
I order a taxi, the driver Alexei on a Volkswagen polo arrives in 5 minutes, and I sit down and drive from one darkness to another. Natasha along the same route, but in the opposite direction.