Не от мира сего [Ne ot mira sego] [English translation]

Just how much it all turned! How much smoke it took just not to see what was of this world.

With toes always curled, when they said: 'son, you know you're simply not of this world.'

Just how much it all turned, but all is nothing apart from poetry that is of this world.

Grew up with no clear return, but the label always stuck - son, you're not of this world.

Son, you're not of this world, excess, like a pen leaking ink,

As if someone dug a crop out, or just cut off a link,

From a chain, where every one is exemplary (I piss on them!),

Every link with this world is going off tangentially.

As the cuts were stinging, I heated up the sand,

And whoever I meet now, a barrier stands,

And you're pretty much fine, but, rummaging inside you,

On goes the search for anyone a bit like you.

Where the mindless, the homeless, the shabby ones,

The smoked out Cauldfields and twitchy Durdens,

Anhedonia, and Jared Leto's omens,

We're born to amphetamine, nu-metal and Baphomet.

You're the type that can't believe the hype - we're Peter Pans,

We grow from days of foam, but we don't grow right,

Raving from a one track mind, the minibus leaves for a mini-home -

In his image, God makes man.

Chorus:

Just how much it all turned! How much smoke it took just not to see what was of this world.

With toes always curled, when they said: 'son, you know you're simply not of this world.'

Just how much it all turned, but all is nothing apart from poetry that is of this world.

Grew up with no clear return, but the label always stuck - son, you're not of this world.

Books spread opinions, doubts come from within them,

And from doubt, laziness, and from there, oblivion.

Michel Houellebecq, de Lautréamont, even Necromonicon,

Again, this world's a target for payback.

DJs, tapes and decks - all that type.

Seems you're like bad wounds, infecting all life.

Of us, the city thinks the worst, one stab and then you're burst.

The truth is like a fungus - born from fights over this curse.

Where's Aldous fucking Huxley now? Don't you like this brave new world?

Then you're just a kid - back to the creche, get out!

Surrounded by defeats, and by failures, by cursed poets and those blessed with graphomania,

The knights of subculture, defenders of glass covers, warriors of lacquer, forgotten music lovers.

It's like this world hangs over a glass fucking panel, but I can see the light at the end of your sonic tunnel.

Chorus:

Just how much it all turned! How much smoke it took just not to see what was of this world.

With toes always curled, when they said: 'son, you know you're simply not of this world.'

Just how much it all turned, but all is nothing apart from poetry that is of this world.

Grew up with no clear return, but the label always stuck - son, you're not of this world.

Just how much it all turned! How much smoke it took just not to see what was of this world.

With toes always curled, when they said: 'son, you know you're simply not of this world.'

Just how much it all turned, but all is nothing apart from poetry that is of this world.

Grew up with no clear return, but the label always stuck - son, you're not of this world.