On the pavement
of my trampled soul
the steps of madmen
weave the prints of rude crude words.
Where cities
hang
and in the noose of cloud
the towers'
crooked spires
congeal-
I go
alone to weep
that crossroads
crucify
policemen.
A Few Words About My Wife
Along far beaches of uncharted seas
the moon-
my wife-goes driving.
She's redhaired, my beloved.
Behind her turnout,
a variegated throng of constellations scurries,
screaming.
She weds with a garage,
kisses newspaper
kiosks,
while
a
fluttering-eyed page tinsels her train the Milky Way.
And I?
*
I
has been drawn from
The Bedbug and Selected Poetry
by
Vladimir Mayakovsky, edited by Patricia Blake, and translated by Max
Hayward and George Reavey, to be published this spring
by
Meridian
Books.
