the other side

we
not a cry of genius -
“everything is allowed”,
we
not a call for stabbing,
we
simply
do not wait for the sergeant
“at will!”,

to stretch the back of art,
straighten.

The skeletons of world Rome are prancing
on our backs.
The graves are not enough for them.
So why be surprised,
which is irreconcilable
we
the world was overlaid with a solid “down with”.

Character different.

For the integrity of Venus, you
ready to spare the centuries with the camarilla.
The universal fire has crushed the nerves.
Plow:
“Firefighters!
Murillo is on fire!”
And we -
not Corneille with some Racine -
отца, –
offer to change on old, –

we
and
pour kerosene
and let us enter the streets -
for illuminations.
Grandmother with grandfather.
Dad to mom.
Worship of the accursed mud.
We tear down shacks.
We lift at home.

And you us -
“to catch a rope of pictures!?”

we
I can not stand -
“Done!
On a platter!
Sip sweet from a teaspoon!”
The cry of the futurist:
there would be people -
art will follow.

The ranks of the futurists are empty.
Futurist age - appeal.
Chopped up, like cabbage,
we are wars,
revolution prizes.
but we
we do not call the inhabitants of the coffin.
Drunk,
in bloody punch,
land -

look! –
the womb swells.
Young men come out in rows.
go!
Under your feet -
trample them -
we
brooch
yourself and your creations.
We call death in the name of.

In the name of running,
guys,
reanya.
when will
break through the outposts,
and the holiday will be for the pain of the battle, –
we
all decorations
we will force to arrange -
love anyone!

[1918]

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Vladimir Mayakovsky
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