As the saying says,
you are now
far.
Void and stars,
a stodgy kind
passover.
No more payday,
no more whiskey bar.
Sober.
Wait, Yessenin,
this is
not a jeer,
Throat lump
of grief
is not at all a grin.
Vivid,
with your wounded hand you veer,
swing your own
bones
in a bag of skin.
- Interrupt it!
Break it!
Is that all for real
letting
chalk of chill
decolorize
your cheek?
Sprees
you found
duck soup to unreel
none on earth
would even dare
speak.
Why the heck?
What for?
Conjectures in a rack churn,
Critics mumbling,
"There's been a cause,
like...
I mean...
the main thing was
the disconnection,
leading towards
beer and wine in heavy dose."
As if,
had you turned away
from hipsters
to the masses,
They would cool you down
and mend your living style.
Wait, but masses
don't
manage on bagasses?
Masses
knock the glasses in a while.
As if,
had you had one of
"The Guardians" assigned,
you'd improve
your imagery
richness by the dozen
writing
epics
under
proper oversight,
long and boring,
as Doronin does it.
As to me,
had all that come
a real thing,
you'd first off self-slaughter
had it knocked your bottom.
Had to choose,
I'd rather die of gin
Than of boredom!
What has
tipped you
over the brink,
neither loop,
nor pen knife give an inkling.
Had
"The Angleterre"
not been so short on ink,
would the
need to
cut the veins be so stinking?
Followers felt encouragement,
"Encore!"
Little less
than a division
self-immortalized.
Why contribute
to the suicide
daily figures even more?
Better
give the sales
of writing ink a rise!
Tongue is locked
inside
the frozen
lip cage.
Neither nerve
nor proper time to
multiply the fancies.
Meet the many,
weavers of the language,
having lost their
bright
and scandalous apprentice.
See the trash
of used commemoration verse
renovated little
since the past
departure rite.
Driving piles
of junky
rhymes behind the hearse,
is it
due respect
the poet's glory cried?
Your
headstone's not erected yet
(where's it,
the bronze peal
or maybe granite face?)
but your grave is
instantly
beset
with the scum
of praise and story lace.
Your name's sniveled
in hankies and napkins
words of yours
trapped in Sobinov's netting,
by a shriveled birch
he is whining beside,
"Not a wo-ord,
not e'en a si-igh!"
Duh,
would you not take it as a sting
from the said
the Leonid the Lohengrin?
As a troublemaker
would you not stand out,
"Give up mumbling,
faltering
the verse!"
Shudder them
without any doubt
with a decent
blaze and thunder curse!
Send the swindler crowd
fleeing from your goad
breaking wind
with flappers
of the swallow-tails,
so that
Cohen lost his poise
and hit the road
injuring
bystanders
with his mustache nails.
Swindlers aren't
scarce yet,
sad to mention,
Got to hurry
just to stay in phase.
All our
life
deserves a reinvention,
Reinvented,
then deserves a praise.
Modern age
is tough to capture with a quill
but enlighten me,
you cripples,
crooks and cowards,
of the great ones
who and where
ever still
took
the easy way
of moving forward?
Word
is the commander
of the mindful army.
Rush!
And let the time
erupt with bombs
behind,
let the headwind
sweep
the old days' blarney
like
the worn-out hair bind.
For rejoicing
planet Earth
is poorly prepared;
We shall loot the solace
from the days to come.
"Part with life"
is not a big affair;
"Build it" —
that's the hard
and worthy one.
Original: feb-web.ru/feb/mayakovsky/texts/ms0/ms7/ms7-100-.htm
Yessenin: www.stihi.ru/2016/04/25/2891
Plescheyev: www.lieder.net/lieder/get_text.html?TextId=19227
Whistling: www.highlightskids.com/stories/how-whistle-loud