by KIRILL MEDVEDEV
a man who hires a prostitute
gives her more than he pays,
and she gives him more
than he pays her.
then where does the surplus go,
why are they both cheated?
it doesn’t go anywhere, actually, it just disappears,
it melts into their mutual kindness,
it burns
in their feast of kindness and self-sacrifice,
and that’s why in the morning there’s frustration—
hysterics, anger—
she wants someone who won’t
pay anymore,
and he wants someone who would
only take—
and each of them needs some pressure—
egoism or cruelty,
their own or someone else’s, it doesn’t matter,
but so that one of them would get it,
so that one of them would be satisfied.
this is called: “I need love”
the kind that causes pain,
that causes music
music plays
and the one who’s going to sell her tomorrow,
that is, in essence, the pimp, the seller,
he knows her better than anyone, and loves her selflessly.
a pretty girl hands out cigarettes near the metro,
but smiles at me for free—
and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.
and only me, I’m the only one who thinks
everything’s bought and paid for,
I’m the only sad asshole who thinks that,
even if not everything’s bought and paid for yet,
not everything’s stamped out,
even if you can still win some kind of prize,
it’s still going to turn out
to be a boot full of someone else’s bad wine.
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