Portrait of Me and Vladimir Mayakovsky
Possibly all we have is chemistry
Perhaps it is chemistry that
All we have, this said, the fat man.
It is fire that turns the word.
God has only to turn a letter
To make one word another word
In Russian, God only has to turn
One letter to turn towers into
pastures. What the cold star of pastures!
In Russian, it is I God
In the Russian, the horses here are burning
That God may speak to us, it is towers
We too must take, that we
Refers to the star-infested,
That the cold-star bane is a huge ear.
That the soft flesh is a huge and horrible
Lady, yes, you Vladimir
And we too in the kitchen we too
The stars too, in horrible black trousers
We sit together at light, its huge ear
At tea cookies and violet and the stench of sweet
It is sweet that is the seed.
We sit at tables, it is Russian
That gives us the wood and the seed
It is tables that we sit
In the Agent District of the Third Moscow
A great cat, the provocateur.
And the Alluder, lit where
Mayakovsky lived. It is I
in the light we clink
Together the Tsarist with coffee
It is across the bodies that we eat meat.
It is across the bodies of the stars
You, Vladimir Mayakovsky, and I
Bend down to kiss you, milk aching
From my breasts, and the chrysanthemums of the age
A chemical unlike space here or time
It is you, with gargantuan lips and me
In tribal lip that we here too the stars do speak.
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