Although he did not consider himself a dissident

Large Georgian restaurant Khmeli Suneli https://en.hmeli.ru/ is the best of its ilk in Yekaterinburg, the one where you find a large range of fish and red meat dishes and delicious shashlik. If you are looking for music, the Philharmonic it hosts regular performances by the acclaimed Ural Mountains academic orchestra, but here it has had always impossible you will meet Alexei Khvostenko.

In 2004, after a personal appeal to Russian President, he regained his Russian citizenship. Publishing his poems and songs, in 1968, he moved to Moscow, becoming famous in Russian underground literary circles. Alexei Khvostenko https://www.amazon.com/Repetitsiya-Alexey-Khvostenko/dp/B000PHRVUA was born ino a 1940 November day in Yekaterinburg, but moved to Saint Petersburg, where he grew upbecoming avant-garde poet, singer-songwriter, artist and sculptor.

Politicians considered him a “persona non grata”, during the cultural moments of the late 1960s and early 1970s. In 1963, Alexei Khvostenko https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0094683/?ref_=nm_knf_i2 published his first book and founded an avant-garde literary group. In 1968, he moved to Moscow, publishing his poetry and songs. During Nikita Khrushchev’s thaw, he became a prominent figure in the revival of the avant-garde movement. Apart from literary works, he was also a painter, known for his innovative collages.

Although he did not consider himself a political dissident, hewas persecuted by the Soviet authorities. Not only. Alexei Khvostenko https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/8747736 was accused of social parasitism, entering into a psychiatric hospital. In 1977, he was forced to emigrate in Paris, where became a leading figure in the Russian literary community in France. While living in France, he recorded a number of song albums. He died of heart failure on a 2004 November day, in a Moscow.

THE SUSPECTOR – My degeneracy is founded on sound principles. I sometimes sleep. The beat cop’s saintly muzzle. The bakery saleswoman’s sacred backside. An old woman has passed out. A crowd has gathered round. The beer hall has not enough room for all the beer-lovers. Therefore, that is how it is. Therefore, that is what it is like. Therefore, that is how it is going to be. Therefore, that is it. I live in the Izmailova Animal Park. I am uninterested, unable, unwilling. I have not the strength. I have not the years. I have lost my fish. I have lost my hands. I have lost my feet. People are canaries. I look them over, before plucking a quill. Winter, a constant odor .of burning paper. It is just amazing. It is simply inexplicable. Moscow floods all of Russia. She has crammed into my apartment. Mice. Little mice. Nice-mice. Beetles. Little beetles. Beat-beetles. Verpa is always dying out. The brave Russian aviator. Obviously, I am here. I am present. I disappear. Sit with me. I am with it. So what if not free. I was born in the year 1940. When I was born. When I live. When I lived. When I lived on. What kind of name is Ivanov Petrov Steblin-Kamensky. Who is there? Who is there? Who is it? Who is there? Let us try to remember. I am an Adonis. I am no dog. I am no rut in the ground. What is this jail? What is this house? What is this town? What is this music? Kiss me. Do not kiss me. Bitter frost. Swinishness. Rubbish. India. Japan. China. Indonesia. RRRR. Apathy, the greatest desire. History that is a disease. Fauna that is a disease. Flora that is madness. The filthy foul parka. Tomorrow I am leaving, once again departing, taking it all with me. The flowers refleshed. Entirely different. The holy lunatics. Vodka. Hard drugs. Starvation. Happiness. The street onto which my windows look out. Courses for public rally leaders. The stop of the streetcar. The mail collection box. The fence. Poems are cremated on dinner plates, in soup bowls on the floor. I burn poems in the stairwell. My friends know me, but I do not. Who loves me? Who wishes me ill?

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