Saturday, August 8, 2015

Vladimir Mayakovsky (1893-1930)

The Dandy’s Jacket
I’ll sew myself a pair of black trousers
from the velvet of my own voice.
A yellow jacket from three yards of sunset.
I’ll saunter along the boulevards of the world,
along its burnished stripes,
like Don Juan—dressed to kill.

Let the earth yell and scream, overripe from too much rest:
“Spring is fresh and green, and you’re going out to violate her!”
I throw myself at the sun, smirking,
“Too bad—it feels good to glide along the asphalt.”

Isn’t it because the sky is blue
And the earth is my lover, all cleaned up for the occasion,
I give you poetry. It’s fun, like puppets,
and sharp and useful, like toothpicks.

Women love me, and now this
girl, looking at me as intimately as a sister.
Toss your smiles to me, the poet.
I’ll sew them onto my fancy jacket like flowers.

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