Hello comrades. You know, I noticed long ago that if you use swear words correctly, your speech is transformed. It becomes elegant and interesting. And most importantly - what powerful emotions can be conveyed to just one Russian swear words. A unique thing - Russian swearing.
But, unfortunately, most people do not know how to use it. Sculpts it through every word. What do I suggest? I suggest you get acquainted with the works of many classics who used ridiculous verbs in their works.
You have heard and read many of them. Personally, I enjoyed re-reading it and rediscovering something for myself.
Perhaps I’m not the only one who will be interested.
Yesenin S. A. - “Don’t strain, dear, and don’t gasp”
Don’t grieve, dear, and don’t gasp,
Hold life like a horse by the bridle,
Tell everyone and everyone to go to hell
So that they don't send you to pussy!
Yesenin S. A. - “The wind blows from the south and the moon has risen”
The wind blows from the south
And the moon rose
What are you doing, whore?
Didn't come at night?
You didn't come at night
Didn't show up during the day.
Do you think we're jerking off?
No! We eat others!
Yesenin S. A. “Sing, sing. On the damn guitar"
Sing, sing. On the damn guitar
Your fingers dance in a semicircle.
I would choke in this frenzy,
My last, only friend.
Don't look at her wrists
And silk flowing from her shoulders.
I was looking for happiness in this woman,
And I accidentally found death.
I didn't know that love is an infection
I didn't know that love was a plague.
Came up with a narrowed eye
The bully was driven crazy.
Sing, my friend. Remind me again
Our former violent early.
Let her kiss each other,
Young, beautiful trash.
Oh, wait. I don't scold her.
Oh, wait. I don't curse her.
Let me play about myself
To this bass string.
The pink dome of my days is flowing.
In the heart of dreams there are golden sums.
I touched a lot of girls
He pressed a lot of women in the corner.
Yes! there is a bitter truth of the earth,
I spied with a childish eye:
Males lick in line
Bitch leaking juice.
So why should I be jealous of her?
So why should I be sick like that?
Our life is a sheet and a bed.
Our life is a kiss and a whirlwind.
Sing, sing! On a fatal scale
These hands are a fatal disaster.
Just you know, fuck them...
I will never die, my friend.
Yesenin S. A. - “Rash, harmonica. Boredom... Boredom"
Rash, harmonica. Boredom... Boredom...
The accordionist's fingers flow like a wave.
Drink with me, you lousy bitch
Drink with me.
They loved you, they abused you -
Unbearable.
Why are you looking at those blue splashes like that?
Or do you want a punch in the face?
I'd like to have you stuffed in the garden,
Scare the crows.
Tormented me to the bone
From all sides.
Rash, harmonica. Rash, my frequent one.
Drink, otter, drink.
I’d rather have that busty one over there -
She's dumber.
I'm not the first among women...
Quite a few of you
But with someone like you, with a bitch
Only for the first time.
The freer, the louder,
Here and there.
I won't commit suicide
Go to hell.
To your pack of dogs
It's time to catch a cold.
Darling, I'm crying
Sorry Sorry...
Mayakovsky V.V. - “To you”
To you, who live behind the orgy orgy,
having a bathroom and a warm closet!
Shame on you about those presented to George
read from newspaper columns?
Do you know, many mediocre,
those who think it’s better to get drunk how -
maybe now the leg bomb
tore Petrov's lieutenant away?..
If he is brought to slaughter,
suddenly I saw, wounded,
how you have a lip smeared in a cutlet
lustfully humming the Northerner!
Is it for you, who love women and dishes,
give your life for pleasure?!
I'd rather be in the bar whores
serve pineapple water!
(Something reminds me of the plot of a poem. For example modern world and its foundations)
Mayakovsky V.V. “Do you like roses? And I shit on them"
Do you love roses?
and I shit on them!
the country needs steam locomotives,
we need metal!
comrade!
don't groan,
don't gasp!
don't pull the reins!
since I fulfilled the plan,
send everyone
in the pussy
did not fulfill -
myself
go
on
dick.
(currently relevant today)
Mayakovsky V.V. - “Hymn of Onanists”
We,
onanists,
Guys
broadshoulders!
Us
you can't lure
meaty tit!
Not
seduce us
cunt
spit!
Cumshot
right,
work left!!!
(Yes, this is the anthem of the pikabushniki XD, sorry guys, this is Winrar :))
Mayakovsky V.V. - “Who are the whores”
Not those
whores
what bread
for the sake of
front
and behind
give us
fuck,
God forgive them!
And those whores -
lying,
money
sucking,
eat
not giving -
whores
existing,
their mother!
Mayakovsky V.V. - “I’m lying on someone else’s wife”
Lie
to someone else's
wife,
ceiling
sticks
fuck you,
but we don't complain -
making communists
out of spite
bourgeois
Europe!
Let the dick
my
like a mast
puffs up!
I don't care,
who is under me -
minister's wife
or the cleaning lady!
Mayakovsky V.V. - “Hey, onanists”
Hey onanists,
shout "Hurray!" -
fucking machines
established,
at your service
any hole
right up to
to the keyhole
wells!!!
Lermontov M. Yu. - “To Tizenhausen”
Don't drive your eyes so languidly,
Don't twirl your round ass,
Voluptuousness and vice
Don't joke waywardly.
Don't go to someone else's bed
And don’t let me near yours,
Not jokingly, not really
Don't shake gentle hands.
Know, our lovely Chukhonian,
Youth doesn't shine for long!
Know: when the hand of God
Will break out over you
Everyone you are today
You look at your feet with prayer,
Sweet moisture of a kiss
They won't take away your sadness,
At least by the tip of the dick then
You would give your life.
Lermontov M. Yu. - “Oh, how sweet your goddess”
Impromptu
Oh how sweet your goddess is.
The Frenchman is trailing after her,
She has a face like a melon
But the ass is like a watermelon.
Goethe Johann - “What a Stork Can Do”
Found a place for a nest
Our stork!.. This bird is
Thunderstorm of frogs from the pond -
It nests in the belfry!
They chatter there all day long,
The people are literally groaning, -
But no one - neither old nor young -
He won't touch his nest!
You may ask why such an honor
Did the bird win? -
She's a bastard! - shit on the church!
A commendable habit!
Nekrasov N. A. - “Finally from Koenigsberg”
Finally from Konigsberg
I got closer to the country
Where they don't like Gutenberg
And they find a taste in shit.
I drank Russian infusion,
I heard "motherfucking"
And they went before me
Write Russian faces.
Pushkin A. S. - “Anne Wulf”
Alas! in vain to the proud maiden
I offered my love!
Neither our life nor our blood
Her soul will not be touched by the solid.
I'll just be full of tears,
Even if sadness breaks my heart.
She's pissed enough for a sliver,
But he won’t let you smell it either.
Pushkin A. S. - “I wanted to refresh my soul”
I wanted to refresh my soul,
Live a seasoned life
In sweet oblivion near friends
Of my past youth.
____
I was traveling to distant lands;
It was not noisy whores that I craved,
I was not looking for gold, not for honor,
In the dust among spears and swords.
Pushkin A. S. - “Once a violinist came to the castrato”
Once a violinist came to the castrato,
He was a poor man, and he was a rich man.
“Look,” said the foolish singer,
My diamonds, emeralds -
I sorted them out of boredom.
A! By the way, brother,” he continued, “
When you're bored,
What are you doing, please tell me.”
The poor guy responded indifferently:
- I? I scratch my mude.
Pushkin A. S. - “The Cart of Life”
In the morning we get into the cart,
We're happy to break our heads
And, despising laziness and bliss,
We shout: let's go! Her mother!
_________________________
Be quiet, godfather; and you, like me, are sinners,
And you will offend everyone with words;
You see a straw in someone else's pussy,
And you don’t even see a log!
(“From the All-Night Vigil...”)
________________________
And finally.
“I live in Paris like a dandy,
I have up to a hundred women.
My dick is like a plot in a legend,
It goes from mouth to mouth.”
V.V. Mayakovsky
In contact with
Classmates
"The wind blows from the south and the moon has risen"
The wind blows from the south
And the moon rose
What are you doing, whore?
Didn't come at night?
You didn't come at night
Didn't show up during the day.
Do you think we're jerking off?
No! We eat others!
“Sing, sing. On the damn guitar"
Sing, sing. On the damn guitar
Your fingers dance in a semicircle.
I would choke in this frenzy,
My last, only friend.
Don't look at her wrists
And silk flowing from her shoulders.
I was looking for happiness in this woman,
And I accidentally found death.
I didn't know that love is an infection
I didn't know love was a plague.
Came up with a narrowed eye
The bully was driven crazy.
Sing, my friend. Remind me again
Our former violent early.
Let her kiss each other,
Young, beautiful trash.
Oh, wait. I don't scold her.
Oh, wait. I don't curse her.
Let me play about myself
To this bass string.
The pink dome of my days is flowing.
In the heart of dreams there are golden sums.
I touched a lot of girls
He pressed a lot of women in the corner.
Yes! there is a bitter truth of the earth,
I spied with a childish eye:
Males lick in line
Bitch leaking juice.
So why should I be jealous of her?
So why should I be sick like that?
Our life is a sheet and a bed.
Our life is a kiss and a whirlwind.
Sing, sing! On a fatal scale
These hands are a fatal disaster.
Just you know, fuck them...
I will never die, my friend.
“Rash, harmonica. Boredom... Boredom"
Rash, harmonica. Boredom... Boredom...
The accordionist's fingers flow like a wave.
Drink with me, you lousy bitch
Drink with me.
They loved you, they abused you -
Unbearable.
Why are you looking at those blue splashes like that?
Or do you want a punch in the face?
I'd like to have you stuffed in the garden,
Scare the crows.
Tormented me to the bone
From all sides.
Rash, harmonica. Rash, my frequent one.
Drink, otter, drink.
I’d rather have that busty one over there -
She's dumber.
I’m not the first among women...
Quite a few of you
But with someone like you, with a bitch
Only for the first time.
The freer, the louder,
Here and there.
I won't commit suicide
Go to hell.
To your pack of dogs
It's time to catch a cold.
Darling, I'm crying
Sorry Sorry…
"Sorokoust"
A. Mariengof
The horn of death blows, blows!
What should we do, what should we do now?
On the muddy thighs of the roads?
You lovers of song fleas,
Would you like to suck the gelding?
It’s full of meekness to celebrate,
Like it or not, you know, take it.
It's good when twilight teases
And they pour it into your fat asses
The bloody broom of dawn.
Soon the freeze will whiten with lime
That village and these meadows.
There is nowhere for you to hide from death,
There is no escape from the enemy.
Here he is, here he is with an iron belly,
Pulls his fingers to the throats of the plains,
The old mill leads with its ear,
I sharpened my milling nose.
And the yard silent bull,
That he spilled all his brains on the heifers,
Wiping my tongue on the spindle,
I sensed trouble over the field.
Oh, isn't it just outside the village?
This is how the harmonica cries pitifully:
Tala-la-la, tili-li-gom
Hanging over a white window sill.
And the yellow wind of autumn
Isn’t that why, touching the blue ripples,
As if with a horse comb,
Strips leaves from maples.
He comes, he comes, a terrible messenger,
The fifth bulky thicket aches.
And the songs become more and more yearning
To the sound of a frog squeaking in the straw.
Oh electric sunrise
Belts and pipes have a tight grip,
Behold the ancient belly
Steel fever is shaking!
Have you seen
How he runs across the steppes,
Hiding in the lake mists,
Snoring with an iron nostril,
A train on cast iron legs?
And behind him
Through the big grass
Like at a festival of desperate racing,
Throwing thin legs to the head,
Red-maned colt galloping?
Dear, dear, funny fool,
Well, where is he, where is he going?
Doesn't he really know that live horses
Did the steel cavalry win?
Doesn't he really know that in the fields of lightless
His running will not bring back that time,
When a couple of beautiful steppe Russian women
Did you give Pechenegs for a horse?
Fate repainted it differently at the auction
Our reach, awakened by the grinding,
And for thousands of pounds of horse leather and meat
They are now buying a locomotive.
Damn you, nasty guest!
Our song won't work with you.
It's a pity that you didn't have to as a child
Drown like a bucket in a well.
It's good for them to stand and watch
Painting mouths with tin kisses, -
Only for me, as a psalm-reader, to sing
“Hallelujah” over our native country.
That's why on September morning
On dry and cold loam,
My head smashed against the fence,
The rowan berries are drenched in blood.
That's why the tension has grown in
In the bustle of the ringing talyanka.
And a man smelling of straw
He choked on the dashing moonshine.
“Don’t grieve, dear, and don’t gasp”
Don’t grieve, dear, and don’t gasp,
Hold life like a horse by the bridle,
Tell everyone and everyone to go to hell
So that they don't send you to pussy!
"Yes! Now it's decided. No refund"
Yes! Now it's decided. No refund
I left my native fields.
They will no longer be winged leaves
I need the poplars to ring.
My old dog died long ago.
I love this elm city,
Let him be flabby and let him become decrepit.
Golden nap Asia
She rested on the domes.
And when the moon shines at night,
When it shines... God knows how!
I walk with my head hanging down,
Down the street to a familiar pub.
The noise and din in this terrible lair,
But all night long, until dawn,
I read poetry to prostitutes
And I fry alcohol with the bandits.
The heart beats faster and faster,
And I say it out of place:
“I’m just like you, lost,
I can’t go back now.”
The low house will stoop without me,
My old dog died long ago.
On Moscow's crooked streets
God destined me to die, to know.
In contact with
Hello comrades. You know, I noticed long ago that if you use swear words correctly, your speech is transformed. It becomes elegant and interesting. And most importantly, what strong emotions can be conveyed with just one Russian swear word. A unique thing - Russian swearing.
But unfortunately, most people do not know how to use it. Sculpts it through every word.
What do I suggest? I suggest you get acquainted with the works of many classics who used absurd verbs in their works.
You have heard and read many of them. Personally, I reread it with pleasure and rediscovered something for myself.
Perhaps I’m not the only one who will be interested.
Yesenin S. A. - “Don’t strain, dear, and don’t gasp”
Don’t grieve, dear, and don’t gasp,
Hold life like a horse by the bridle,
Tell everyone and everyone to go to hell
So that they don't send you to pussy!
Yesenin S. A. - “The wind blows from the south and the moon has risen”
The wind blows from the south
And the moon rose
What are you doing, whore?
Didn't come at night?
You didn't come at night
Didn't show up during the day.
Do you think we're jerking off?
No! We eat others!
Yesenin S. A. “Sing, sing. On the damn guitar"
Sing, sing. On the damn guitar
Your fingers dance in a semicircle.
I would choke in this frenzy,
My last, only friend.
Don't look at her wrists
And silk flowing from her shoulders.
I was looking for happiness in this woman,
And I accidentally found death.
I didn't know that love is an infection
I didn't know that love was a plague.
Came up with a narrowed eye
The bully was driven crazy.
Sing, my friend. Remind me again
Our former violent early.
Let her kiss each other,
Young, beautiful trash.
Oh, wait. I don't scold her.
Oh, wait. I don't curse her.
Let me play about myself
To this bass string.
The pink dome of my days is flowing.
In the heart of dreams there are golden sums.
I touched a lot of girls
He pressed a lot of women in the corner.
Yes! there is a bitter truth of the earth,
I spied with a childish eye:
Males lick in line
Bitch leaking juice.
So why should I be jealous of her?
So why should I be sick like that?
Our life is a sheet and a bed.
Our life is a kiss and a whirlwind.
Sing, sing! On a fatal scale
These hands are a fatal disaster.
Just you know, fuck them...
I will never die, my friend.
Yesenin S. A. - “Rash, harmonica. Boredom... Boredom"
Rash, harmonica. Boredom... Boredom...
The accordionist's fingers flow like a wave.
Drink with me, you lousy bitch
Drink with me.
They loved you, they abused you -
Unbearable.
Why are you looking at those blue splashes like that?
Or do you want a punch in the face?
I'd like to have you stuffed in the garden,
Scare the crows.
Tormented me to the bone
From all sides.
Rash, harmonica. Rash, my frequent one.
Drink, otter, drink.
I’d rather have that busty one over there -
She's dumber.
I'm not the first among women...
Quite a few of you
But with someone like you, with a bitch
Only for the first time.
The freer, the louder,
Here and there.
I won't commit suicide
Go to hell.
To your pack of dogs
It's time to catch a cold.
Darling, I'm crying
Sorry Sorry...
Mayakovsky V.V. - “To you”
To you, who live behind the orgy orgy,
having a bathroom and a warm closet!
Shame on you about those presented to George
read from newspaper columns?
Do you know, many mediocre,
those who think it’s better to get drunk how -
maybe now the leg bomb
tore Petrov's lieutenant away?..
If he is brought to slaughter,
suddenly I saw, wounded,
how you have a lip smeared in a cutlet
lustfully humming the Northerner!
Is it for you, who love women and dishes,
give your life for pleasure?!
I'd rather be in the bar whores
serve pineapple water!
(Something reminds me of the plot of the poem. For example, the modern world and its foundations)
Mayakovsky V.V. “Do you like roses? And I shit on them"
Do you love roses?
and I shit on them!
the country needs steam locomotives,
we need metal!
comrade!
don't groan,
don't gasp!
don't pull the reins!
since I fulfilled the plan,
send everyone
in the pussy
did not fulfill -
myself
go
on
dick.
(currently relevant today)
Mayakovsky V.V. - “Hymn of Onanists”
We,
onanists,
Guys
broadshoulders!
Us
you can't lure
meaty tit!
Not
seduce us
cunt
spit!
Cumshot
right,
work left!!!
(Yes, this is the anthem of the pikabushniki XD, sorry guys, this is Winrar :))
Mayakovsky V.V. - “Who are the whores”
Not those
whores
what bread
for the sake of
front
and behind
give us
fuck,
God forgive them!
And those whores -
lying,
money
sucking,
eat
not giving -
whores
existing,
their mother!
Mayakovsky V.V. - “I’m lying on someone else’s wife”
Lie
to someone else's
wife,
ceiling
sticks
fuck you,
but we don't complain -
making communists
out of spite
bourgeois
Europe!
Let the dick
my
like a mast
puffs up!
I don't care,
who is under me -
minister's wife
or the cleaning lady!
Mayakovsky V.V. - “Hey, onanists”
Hey onanists,
shout "Hurray!" -
fucking machines
established,
at your service
any hole
right up to
to the keyhole
wells!!!
Lermontov M. Yu. - “To Tizenhausen”
Don't drive your eyes so languidly,
Don't twirl your round ass,
Voluptuousness and vice
Don't joke waywardly.
Don't go to someone else's bed
And don’t let me near yours,
Not jokingly, not really
Don't shake gentle hands.
Know, our lovely Chukhonian,
Youth doesn't shine for long!
Know: when the hand of God
Will break out over you
Everyone you are today
You look at your feet with prayer,
Sweet moisture of a kiss
They won't take away your sadness,
At least by the tip of the dick then
You would give your life.
Lermontov M. Yu. - “Oh, how sweet your goddess”
Impromptu
Oh how sweet your goddess is.
The Frenchman is trailing after her,
She has a face like a melon
But the ass is like a watermelon.
Goethe Johann - “What a Stork Can Do”
Found a place for a nest
Our stork!.. This bird is
Thunderstorm of frogs from the pond -
It nests in the belfry!
They chatter there all day long,
The people are literally groaning, -
But no one - neither old nor young -
He won't touch his nest!
You may ask why such an honor
Did the bird win? -
She's a bastard! - shit on the church!
A commendable habit!
Nekrasov N. A. - “Finally from Koenigsberg”
Finally from Konigsberg
I got closer to the country
Where they don't like Gutenberg
And they find a taste in shit.
I drank Russian infusion,
I heard "motherfucking"
And they went before me
Write Russian faces.
Pushkin A. S. - “Anne Wulf”
Alas! in vain to the proud maiden
I offered my love!
Neither our life nor our blood
Her soul will not be touched by the solid.
I'll just be full of tears,
Even if sadness breaks my heart.
She's pissed enough for a sliver,
But he won’t let you smell it either.
Pushkin A. S. - “I wanted to refresh my soul”
I wanted to refresh my soul,
Live a seasoned life
In sweet oblivion near friends
Of my past youth.
____
I was traveling to distant lands;
It was not noisy whores that I craved,
I was not looking for gold, not for honor,
In the dust among spears and swords.
Pushkin A. S. - “Once a violinist came to the castrato”
Once a violinist came to the castrato,
He was a poor man, and he was a rich man.
“Look,” said the foolish singer,
My diamonds, emeralds -
I sorted them out of boredom.
A! By the way, brother,” he continued, “
When you're bored,
What are you doing, please tell me.”
The poor guy responded indifferently:
- I? I scratch my mude.
Pushkin A. S. - “The Cart of Life”
In the morning we get into the cart,
We're happy to break our heads
And, despising laziness and bliss,
We shout: let's go! Her mother!
_________________________
Be quiet, godfather; and you, like me, are sinners,
And you will offend everyone with words;
You see a straw in someone else's pussy,
And you don’t even see a log!
(“From the All-Night Vigil...”)
________________________
And finally.
“I live in Paris like a dandy,
I have up to a hundred women.
My dick is like a plot in a legend,
It goes from mouth to mouth.”
- V.V. Mayakovsky
Guys, who has more, write in the comments.
“Sing, sing. On the damn guitar"
Sing, sing. On the damn guitar
Your fingers dance in a semicircle.
I would choke in this frenzy,
My last, only friend.
Don't look at her wrists
And silk flowing from her shoulders.
I was looking for happiness in this woman,
And I accidentally found death.
I didn't know that love is an infection
I didn't know love was a plague.
Came up with a narrowed eye
The bully was driven crazy.
Sing, my friend. Remind me again
Our former violent early.
Let her kiss each other,
Oh, wait. I don't scold her.
Oh, wait. I don't curse her.
Let me play about myself
To this bass string.
The pink dome of my days is flowing.
In the heart of dreams there are golden sums.
I touched a lot of girls
He pressed a lot of women in the corner.
Yes! there is a bitter truth of the earth,
I spied with a childish eye:
Males lick in line
Bitch leaking juice.
So why should I be jealous of her?
So why should I be sick like that?
The freer, the louder,
Here and there.
I won't commit suicide
Go to hell.
To your pack of dogs
It's time to catch a cold.
Darling, I'm crying
Sorry Sorry…
"Sorokoust"
A. Mariengof
The horn of death blows, blows!
What should we do, what should we do now?
On the muddy thighs of the roads?
You lovers of song fleas,
Would you like to suck the gelding?
It’s full of meekness to celebrate,
Like it or not, you know, take it.
It's good when twilight teases
And they pour it into your fat asses
The bloody broom of dawn.
Soon the freeze will whiten with lime
That village and these meadows.
There is nowhere for you to hide from death,
There is no escape from the enemy.
Here he is, here he is with an iron belly,
Pulls his fingers to the throats of the plains,
The old mill leads with its ear,
I sharpened my milling nose.
And the yard silent bull,
That he spilled all his brains on the chicks,
Wiping my tongue on the spindle,
I sensed trouble over the field.
Oh, isn't it just outside the village?
This is how the harmonica cries pitifully:
Tala-la-la, tili-li-gom
Hanging over a white window sill.
And the yellow wind of autumn
Isn’t that why, touching the blue ripples,
As if with a horse comb,
Strips leaves from maples.
He comes, he comes, a terrible messenger,
The fifth bulky thicket aches.
And the songs become more and more yearning
To the sound of a frog squeaking in the straw.
Oh electric sunrise
Belts and pipes have a tight grip,
Behold the ancient belly
Steel fever is shaking!
Have you seen
How he runs across the steppes,
Hiding in the lake mists,
Snoring with an iron nostril,
A train on cast iron legs?
Through the big grass
Like at a festival of desperate racing,
Throwing thin legs to the head,
Red-maned colt galloping?
Dear, dear, funny fool,
Well, where is he, where is he going?
Doesn't he really know that live horses
Did the steel cavalry win?
Doesn't he really know that in the fields of lightless
His running will not bring back that time,
When a couple of beautiful steppe Russian women
Did you give Pechenegs for a horse?
Fate repainted it differently at the auction
Our reach, awakened by the grinding,
And for thousands of pounds of horse leather and meat
They are now buying a locomotive.
Damn you, nasty guest!
Our song won't work with you.
It's a pity that you didn't have to as a child
Drown like a bucket in a well.
It's good for them to stand and watch
Painting mouths with tin kisses, -
Only for me, as a psalm-reader, to sing
“Hallelujah” over our native country.
That's why on September morning
On dry and cold loam,
My head smashed against the fence,
The rowan berries are drenched in blood.
That's why the tension has grown in
In the bustle of the ringing talyanka.
And a man smelling of straw
He choked on the dashing moonshine.
“Don’t grieve, dear, and don’t gasp”
Don’t grieve, dear, and don’t gasp,
Hold life like a horse by the bridle,
Tell everyone and everyone to go to hell
So that they don't send you to pussy!
"Yes! Now it's decided. No refund"
Yes! Now it's decided. No refund
I left my native fields.
They will no longer be winged leaves
I need the poplars to ring.
My old dog died long ago.
I love this elm city,
Let him be flabby and let him become decrepit.
Golden nap Asia
She rested on the domes.
And when the moon shines at night,
When it shines... God knows how!
I walk with my head hanging down,
Down the street to a familiar pub.
The noise and din in this terrible lair,
But all night long, until dawn,
I read poetry to prostitutes
And I fry alcohol with the bandits.
The heart beats faster and faster,
And I say it out of place:
“I’m just like you, lost,
I can’t go back now.”
The low house will stoop without me,
My old dog died long ago.
On Moscow's crooked streets
God destined me to die, to know.
"The wind blows from the south and the moon has risen"
The wind blows from the south
And the moon rose
What are you doing, whore?
Didn't come at night?
You didn't come at night
Didn't show up during the day.
Do you think we're jerking off?
Both critics and readers often idealize their idols: poets and writers. But this ordinary people with their passions, sins, weaknesses and vices, which are reflected in their work. In obscene poems, for example. Today, when icons are made from classics, forgetting about their earthly essence, they try not to remember these poems either in school or university classrooms. In addition, profanity is prohibited by law. If things continue like this, and The State Duma continues to ban everything, we will soon forget that in Russian literature there were such popularly beloved authors as V. Erofeev, V. Vysotsky, V. Sorokin, V. Pelevin and many others. Mayakovsky, Lermontov, Pushkin, and, of course, Sergei Yesenin, who himself called himself a hooligan, brawler and obscenity, have poems with profanity.
There's only one thing left for me to do
There's only one thing left for me to do:
Fingers in the mouth and a cheerful whistle.
Notoriety has spread
That I am a bawdy and a brawler.
Oh! what a funny loss!
There are many funny losses in life.
I'm ashamed that I believed in God.
It’s sad for me that I don’t believe it now.
Golden, distant distances!
Everyday death burns everything.
And I was rude and scandalous
To burn brighter.
The poet's gift is to caress and scribble,
There is a fatal stamp on it.
White rose with black toad
I wanted to get married on earth.
Let them not come true, let them not come true
These thoughts of rosy days.
But if the devils were nesting in the soul -
This means that angels lived in it.
It's for this fun that it's muddy,
Going with her to another land,
I want at the last minute
Ask those who will be with me -
So that for all my grave sins,
For disbelief in grace
They put me in a Russian shirt
To die under icons.
Why are you looking at those blue splashes like that?
The favorite of women, in a drunken stupor, more than once recited poems of very dubious content in public. Although I rarely wrote it down. They were born spontaneously and did not linger in the poet’s memory. However, there were still a few poems left in the drafts, where the author expressed his thoughts and emotions, resorting to taboo vocabulary.
Yesenin was seriously mentally ill, and it was to this period that almost all of his frivolous verses date back. The poet lost faith in love, in social justice, in new system. He was confused, lost the meaning of existence, and became disillusioned with his creativity. The world appeared before him in shades of grey.
This is clearly seen in the poem, full of drunken bravado and deep despair.
Harmonica rash. Boredom... Boredom
Rash, harmonica. Boredom... Boredom...
The accordionist's fingers flow like a wave.
Drink with me, you lousy bitch.
Drink with me.
They loved you, they abused you -
Unbearable.
Why are you looking at those blue splashes like that?
Or do you want a punch in the face?
I'd like to have you stuffed in the garden,
Scare the crows.
Tormented me to the bone
From all sides.
Rash, harmonica. Rash, my frequent one.
Drink, otter, drink.
I’d rather have that busty one over there -
She's dumber.
I’m not the first among women...
Quite a few of you
But with someone like you and a bitch
Only for the first time.
The more painful it is, the louder it is,
Here and there.
I won't commit suicide
Go to hell.
To your pack of dogs
It's time to catch a cold.
Darling, I'm crying
Sorry Sorry…
Here the Ryazan rake seeks to prove to everyone, and first of all, to himself, that his chaotic life was not in vain. And although the motives for suicide are increasingly breaking through into him, Yesenin still has hope that he will be able to escape from the deep and vicious whirlpool of drunkenness and riotous life. He exclaims: “I won’t commit suicide, go to hell.”
The favorite of women in a drunken stupor has repeatedly recited poems of very dubious content in public
The wind blows from the south
The poet wrote the poem “The Wind Blows from the South” after he invited a girl to visit, who refused to continue the acquaintance, knowing about the difficult character and far from secular manners of her gentleman.
The wind blows from the south,
And the moon rose
What the fuck are you doing?
Didn't come at night?
The poem is presented in an aggressive and harsh form, and its meaning is that the lyrical hero can easily find a replacement for the intractable young lady, and will be able to drag any other beauty into bed.
Sing, sing. On the damn guitar
A similar leitmotif is contained in the stanzas of the work “Sing, sing. On the damned guitar”, where the poet again returns to the theme of death.
Sing, sing. On the damn guitar
Your fingers dance in a semicircle.
I would choke in this frenzy,
My last, only friend.
Don't look at her wrists
And silk flowing from her shoulders.
I was looking for happiness in this woman,
And I accidentally found death.
I didn't know that love is an infection
I didn't know love was a plague.
Came up with a narrowed eye
The bully was driven crazy.
Sing, my friend. Remind me again
Our former violent early.
Let her kiss each other,
Young, beautiful trash.
Oh, wait. I don't scold her.
Oh, wait. I don't curse her.
Let me play about myself
To this bass string.
The pink dome of my days is flowing.
In the heart of dreams there are golden sums.
I touched a lot of girls
He pressed a lot of women in the corner.
Yes! there is a bitter truth of the earth,
I spied with a childish eye:
Males lick in line
Bitch leaking juice.
So why should I be jealous of her?
So why should I be sick like that?
Our life is a sheet and a bed.
Our life is a kiss and a whirlwind.
Sing, sing! On a fatal scale
These hands are a fatal disaster.
You just know, fuck them
Alas, the poet’s prophecy regarding himself did not come true. The last day of December 1925 turned out to be a holiday with tears in our eyes.
The poet lost faith in love, in social justice, in the new system
On this day, Muscovites and numerous guests of the capital buried Sergei Yesenin. An hour before the ceremonial chiming of his best friend poet Anatoly Mariengof cried in his room on Tverskoy Boulevard.
He could not understand how people who had recently walked with a mournful look behind the poet’s coffin were now preening themselves, twirling in front of the mirror, and tying their ties. And at midnight they will congratulate each other on the New Year and clink glasses of champagne.
He shared these sorrowful thoughts with his wife. His wife then said to him philosophically:
This is life, Tolya!
Live hot water bottle
All night they sat on the ottoman, looking through photographs in which there was a young, perky, mocking Sergei. They recited his magical ones by heart. Anatoly Borisovich also recalled how, before his marriage, he and Yesenin lived in Moscow, without having their own roof over their heads.
By the way, the great poet never received an apartment in the capital, despite his crazy fame. “After all, he’s spending the night somewhere now, so let him live there,” an official of the Krasnopresnensky district administration threw up his hands with irresistible logic, where, after passing through five bureaucratic authorities, a paper was received from Trotsky’s office with a proposal to provide living space to Yesenin. “How much do we have in Moscow, and why should we give everyone an apartment?”
Yesenin was saved from “homelessness” by his friends. But mostly - friends. At first, Yesenin lived with Anatoly Mariengof, huddling with friends or renting a corner for a while. Brothers in the literary workshop were separated so rarely that they gave the whole of Moscow reason to talk about intimacy with each other.
The great poet never received an apartment in the capital, despite his crazy fame
And in fact, they even had to sleep in the same bed! What are you going to do if there is nothing to heat the apartment with, and you can only write down poems while wearing warm gloves!
One day, a little-known Moscow poetess asked Sergei to help her get a job. The girl was pink-cheeked, steep-hipped, with thick, soft shoulders. The poet offered to pay her the salary of a good typist. To do this, she had to come to her friends at night, undress, lie down under the covers and leave when the bed was warm. Yesenin promised that during the procedure of undressing and dressing they would not look at the girl.
For three days the already famous poets of that time went to a warm bed. On the fourth, the young writer could not stand it and indignantly refused the easy but strange service. To the perplexed question of true gentlemen: “What’s the matter?”, she angrily exclaimed:
I didn’t hire myself to warm the sheets of the saints!
They say that Mariengof, out of friendly motives, incited Yesenin against Zinaida Reich, arousing in him unreasonable jealousy. As a result, Sergei divorced the woman he loved. Since then family life It never worked out for him.
Although Zinaida and Reich and their children are a poet. However, it is difficult to imagine Sergei Yesenin, the owner of a light walk and a lover of noisy feasts, as a respectable father of a family and a faithful husband.
Mariengof, out of friendly motives, incited Yesenin against Zinaida Reich
He walked forward through life with long strides, as if he was in a hurry to get through it as quickly as possible. Isadora Duncan even gave the poet a gold watch, but he still remained at odds with time.
Dancer Isadora Duncan
Marriage to the famous French dancer Duncan was perceived by those around the poet as his desire to finally solve the housing problem. Then a caustic ditty immediately began to sound on the Moscow streets:
Tolya walks around unwashed,
And Seryozha is clean.
That's why Seryozha is sleeping
With Dunya on Prechistenka.
Meanwhile, Yesenin’s feeling, which flared up sharply before everyone’s eyes, cannot be called anything other than love.
But that heavy love in which passion prevails. Yesenin gave himself to her without hesitation, without controlling his words and actions. However, there were few words - he did not know either English or French, and Isadora did not speak Russian well. But one of her first sayings about Yesenin was “”. And when he roughly pushed her away, she joyfully exclaimed: “Russian love!”
The seductress of many European celebrities with refined tastes and manners, the behavior of the explosive Russian poet with a golden-haired head was to her heart. And he, yesterday’s provincial peasant, the conqueror of the capital’s beauties, apparently wanted to reduce this refined woman, caressed by salon life, to the level of a village girl.
It was no coincidence that he called her “Dunka” behind her back among his friends. Isadora knelt before him, but he preferred the restless life between heaven and earth to her sweet captivity.
Sergei Yesenin and Isadora Duncan - a love story In the Duncan mansion they practically did not know what water was - they quenched their thirst with French wines, cognac and champagne. The trip with “Dunka” abroad made a grave impression on Yesenin. The complacency of the well-fed, vulgar bourgeois, and against their background, the dancer, noticeably heavier from drunkenness, before our eyes - all this depressed Yesenin. After another scandal in Paris, Isadora imprisoned her “prince” in a private madhouse. The poet spent three days with the “schizos,” fearing for his sanity every second.
He develops persecution mania. In Russia, this disease will intensify, weakening the already too sensitive nervous psyche. Alas, even close people treated the poet’s illness as a manifestation of suspiciousness, another eccentricity.
Yes, Yesenin was, in fact, suspicious, afraid of syphilis, the scourge of troubled times, and every now and then he had his blood tested. But he was really being watched - he was surrounded by secret agents of the Cheka, he was often provoked into scandals and dragged to the police. Suffice it to say that in five years five criminal cases were opened against Yesenin, and in Lately he was wanted!
Diagnosis: persecution mania Dzerzhinsky’s favorite, the adventurer and murderer Blumkin, was waving a revolver in front of his nose, some people in black overtook him in the dark and demanded huge money in return for peace of mind, they stole his manuscripts, beat him and robbed him repeatedly. What about friends? It was they who pushed Yesenin to. They ate and drank at his expense, being jealous, they could not forgive Yesenin for what they themselves were deprived of - genius and beauty, just that. The fact that he scattered handfuls of gold from his sonorous soul.
He will plow the earth, write poetry
Yesenin's lifestyle and creativity were completely alien to the Soviet regime. She was afraid of his colossal influence on an agitated society, on young people. All her attempts to reason with and tame the poet were unsuccessful.
Then the persecution began in magazines and at public debates, humiliation with the issuance of cut fees to him. The poet, aware of the uniqueness and power of his gift, could not bear this. His psyche was completely shaken, in Last year Yesenin experienced visual hallucinations.
What did he think shortly before his death, hiding in a Moscow clinic for the mentally ill from Themis, blinded by the Bolsheviks?
He was surrounded by secret agents of the Cheka, he was often provoked into scandals and dragged to the police
Even there he was besieged by countless creditors. And what lies ahead - poverty, because Yesenin still sent money to the village, supported his sisters, but where to lay his head? Not on prison bunks! Return to the village? Did Mayakovsky write: “he will plow the land, write poetry”?
No, Yesenin was poisoned by both fame and metropolitan life, and the poverty and greed of the peasants led him to despair. Although in Moscow he was gnawed by a terrible loneliness, aggravated by the close and idle attention of the public, greedy for sensations. From this loneliness such painful forebodings were born:
I'm scared - because the soul is passing,
Like youth and like love.
He has already said goodbye to love and youth, is it really still necessary to part with his soul forever? Perhaps one of the main tragedies of Yesenin’s life is the loss of faith. He had no support from the outside, and he was losing confidence in own strength, being by the age of 30 both mentally and physically ill.
Galina Benislavskaya - death
And yet there was support from the outside, but in December 1925 it also gave way. For five years, Galina Benislavskaya relentlessly followed Yesenin. His executor, keeper of the poet's manuscripts and cherished thoughts, she forgave him all his infidelities. And she always allowed the homeless poet to come to her, moreover, she looked for him all over Moscow when he disappeared from time to time. She pulled him out of the whirlpool of tavern life, for which Yesenin’s “friends” once nearly killed her.
But Benislavskaya could not forgive him for his marriage - already the fourth! - to Sophia, the granddaughter of Leo Tolstoy (this marriage also ended in failure). That’s why Galina didn’t want to come to the sick poet in the clinic for a very important conversation. Perhaps she could have saved her beloved Seryozha from a terrible act cold winter 1925.
He has already said goodbye to love and youth; is he really yet to part with his soul?
After Yesenin’s death, a wave of suicides swept across Russia. But Galya wanted to live - in order to write the truth about her relationship with the great poet, in order to collect and prepare for publication all of Yesenin’s vast creative heritage. A year later this work was completed.
Then Benislavskaya came to Vagankovo, smoked a pack of cigarettes, wrote a farewell note on it and... She had to play Russian roulette to the bitter end, since there was only one bullet in the cylinder of her revolver. Near the Yesenin hill there are now two graves of the people closest to him: his mother and Galina.
VIDEO: Sergey Yesenin reads. Confession of a hooligan