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Mayakovsky
1 My heart’s aflutter! I am standing in the bath tub crying. Mother, mother who am I? If he will just come back once and kiss me on the face his coarse hair brush my temple, it’s throbbing!
then I can put on my clothes I guess, and walk the streets.
2 I love you. I love you, but I’m turning to my verses and my heart is closing like a fist.
Words! be sick as I am sick, swoon, roll back your eyes, a pool,
and I’ll stare down at my wounded beauty which at best is only a talent for poetry.
Cannot please, cannot charm or win what a poet! and the clear water is thick
with bloody blows on its head. I embrace a cloud, but when I soared it rained.
3 That’s funny! there’s blood on my chest oh yes, I’ve been carrying bricks what a funny place to rupture! and now it is raining on the ailanthus as I step out onto the window ledge the tracks below me are smoky and glistening with a passion for running I leap into the leaves, green like the sea
4 Now I am quietly waiting for the catastrophe of my personality to seem beautiful again, and interesting, and modern.
The country is grey and brown and white in trees, snows and skies of laughter always diminishing, less funny not just darker, not just grey.
It may be the coldest day of the year, what does he think of that? I mean, what do I? And if I do, perhaps I am myself again.
crying. Mom, mom who am I? If he would just come back once and kiss me on the face his rough hair brushing my temple, it's pounding!
then I can get dressed I guess, and walk outside.
I love you. I love you, but I'm turning to my poems and my heart is closing like a fist.
Words! be as sick as I am, faint, roll back your eyes, a pool,
and I'll look down at my wounded beauty which is only a knack for poetry.
Cannot please, cannot charm or win what a poet! and the clear water is thick
with bloody hits on its head. I hug a cloud, but when I flew it rained.
That's funny! there's blood on my chest oh yes, I've been carrying bricks what a strange place to break! and now it is raining on the tree as I step out onto the window ledge the tracks below me are smoky and shining with a desire to run I jump into the leaves, green like the sea
Now I am quietly waiting for the disaster of my personality to seem beautiful again, and interesting, and modern.
The country is grey and brown and white in trees, snows and skies of laughter always getting less, less funny not just darker, not just grey.
It may be the coldest day of the year, what does he think of that? I mean, what do I? And if I do, maybe I am myself again.