бомж-вуду/cereal rapist
Как знают истинные фанаты Дэвида, он еще и стихи пишет.
Немножко покопавшись в интернете их даже можно найти. В общем, предлагаю вашему вниманию:
Перевод будет позже т.к. никак не могу найти тот перевод, который был мной прочитан еще во времена увлечения ГП и нравился мне больше остальных тк там и рифма и смысл были в разумных пропорциях сохранены.

After the rain,
Our umbrella
Becomes a cane,
And, "Whatever will become of us?"
Becomes "...became.


Where, and when, and if,
I die
I desire to revisit this filth
As a fly
and on some squalid afternoon
Fly smack into your bathroom,
Small and black,
And crawl all over
Your naked young back.
I know you imagine I'm a sensitive man,
But I'm afraid that's just
The kind of fly
I am.

Another Night
We talked all evening about the end of the world
Until it was the end of the evening,
And freezing outside
And we agreed
It had nothing to do with us.
The bus arrived and we said good, and bye, and tried to hug in direct correlation
To the total of our affection to date.
It was very late,
Or very early,
When I put my key in the door.
And I sat in my bed
And looked for lumps on my skin.
And thinking about the end of the world,
I waited for the world to begin.


He'd been let down so often
His brow was on the floor
But then they found
A small hole in the ground
And let him down some more.


Love Poem
The moon was booked to appear in this poem,
But due to stress
and overwork,
Countless appearances in sonnets and haiku,
It's going to be difficult to express how much
I like you.
It's been holding it's breath
And turning blue,
Once in a while.
Smiling for children,
Styling the tide.
Inspiring sex,
And suicide.
A backlog of allusions to deal with.
Feelings to justify.
It's done very well for a lump of white rock,
With a peak time slot in the night sky,
Sharing top billing with it's straight man, the sun, The best double act
in kingdom not come.
Mystified and delighted
With the interest shown
By painters
And writers
And people alone.
But at the last minute NASA phoned
And bumped up th e residuals,
So your poem's been postponed.
I'm sorry.

@темы: стихи