# poetry
❝ Но кому я, к черту, попутчик!
Ни души
не шагает
рядом. ❞
—— Маяковский (via kirilchukv)


These pacifiers are second to none, I’d suck on them until I die”—Russian poster, c. 1920s (via)

❝ Remote kinship with any of the well-known Indian tribes is considered the height of fashion in high society — something which, even quite recently, was regarded as a thundering disgrace in American eyes. ❞
—— Vladimir Mayakovsky, My Discovery of America. I guess this is an early case of the “1/16 Cherokee” phenomenon? Earlier he also explains that only white people are considered American, and how preposterous that seems when most of the “American” music and dance genres had black origins.

Your thought,
musing on a sodden brain
like a bloated lackey on a greasy couch,
I’ll taunt with a bloody morsel of heart
and satiate my insolent, caustic contempt.

No gray hairs streak my soul,
no grandfatherly fondness there!
I shake the world with the might of my voice,
and walk—handsome,

Tender souls!
You play your love on a fiddle,
and the crude club their love on a drum.
But you cannot turn yourselves inside out,
like me, and be just bare lips!

Come and be lessoned—
prim officiates of the angelic league,
lisping in drawing-room cambric.

You, too, who leaf your lips like a cook
turns the pages of a cookery book.

If you wish,
I shall rage on raw meat;
or, as the sky changes its hue,
if you wish,
I shall grow irreproachably tender:
not a man, but a cloud in trousers!

—— A Cloud in Trousers (excerpt), Vladimir Mayakovsky, trans. George Reavey

❝ And thus,
I stood hunched by the window,
and my brow melted the glass.
What will it be: love or no love?
And what kind of love:
big or minute?
How could a body like this have a big love?
It should be a teeny-weeny,
humble, little love;
a love that shies at the hooting of cars,
that adores the bells of horse-trams. ❞
—— Vladimir Mayakovsky, A Cloud in Trousers (excerpt), trans. George Reavey


Love - Vldimir Mayakovsky


Vladimir Tatlin, Funeral parade for Vladimir Mayakovsky, 1930


Your thoughts,
dreaming on a softened brain,
like an over-fed lackey on a greasy settee,
with my heart’s bloody tatters I’ll mock again;
impudent and caustic, I’ll jeer to superfluity.

Of Grandfatherly gentleness I’m devoid,
there’s not a single grey hair in my soul!
Thundering the world with the might of my voice,
I go by – handsome,

Вашу мысль
мечтающую на размягченном мозгу,
как выжиревший лакей на засаленной кушетке,
буду дразнить об окровавленный сердца лоскут:
досыта изъиздеваюсь, нахальный и едкий.

У меня в душе ни одного седого волоса,
и старческой нежности нет в ней!
Мир огромив мощью голоса,
иду – красивый,


i’m so in love with my mayakovsky facsimile

❝ But I
have tamed
I have stomped
on the throat
of my own song ❞
—— By Vladimir Mayakovsky