The street collapsed, as a syphilitic’s nose.
The river — drivelling voluptuousness.
Casting off their garments until the last leaf,
the gardens lay obscenely spread in June.
I went to the square,
put on a burnt quarter
on my head, as a red-headed wig.
The people are afraid — from my mouth
an unchewed scream is kicking its legs.
But no one shall judge me, no one shall bawl me out,
As for a prophet, they shall cover my path with flowers,
All of those, with collapsed noses, know:
I — am your poet.
Your last judgement frightens me as a pub does!
Only I alone shall be carried through the burning building
by the hands of prostitutes, as a holy relic,
to be shown to god as their exculpation.
And god shall weep over my book!
Not words — but convulsions, lumped together;
And will run across the heavens with my verses
under his arm, and, out of breath, shall read them
to his acquaintances.
Улица провалилась, как нос сифилитика.
Река — сладострастье, растекшееся в слюни.
Отбросив белье до последнего листика,
сады похабно развалились в июне.
Я вышел на площадь,
выжженный квартал
надел на голову, как рыжий парик.
Людям страшно — у меня изо рта
шевелит ногами непрожеванный крик.
Но меня не осудят, но меня не облают,
как пророку, цветами устелят мне след.
Все эти, провалившиеся носами, знают:
я — ваш поэт.
Как трактир, мне страшен ваш страшный суд!
Меня одного сквозь горящие здания
проститутки, как святыню, на руках понесут
и покажут богу в свое оправдание.
И бог заплачет над моею книжкой!
Не слова — судороги, слипшиеся комом;
и побежит по небу с моими стихами подмышкой
и будет, задыхаясь, читать их своим знакомым.
«All on the earth will die — and youth and mother, / Wife will betray you, leave once faithful friend, / But you learn to enjoy the bliss another — / Look in a mirror of the polar land. Get on your bark, sail to the distant Pole / In walls of ice — and bit by bit forget / How they l...»
«I’m sick, for sure: deep darkness holds my heart, / I’m bored with the people and the stories, / And dream of treasures of the kingdoms, glories, / And yataghans, all covered with blood. It seems to me – and this is no fraud – / A Tartar, squint, was one of my begetters, / That fi...»
«My love for you is now a baby elephant / who was born in Berlin or Paris / and treads with padded feet / the rooms of the menagerie owner. / Do not offer him French rolls, / do not offer him c abbage slumps, / he can eat just a quarter of a mandarin, / a lump of sugar or a sweet. / D...»
«My fantasy is proud and plain: / To grasp the crop, leap the stirrup, / Outrace sluggish time, / And always kiss fresh lips; And in old age before Christ’s grace, / With ash on head and eyes cast down / Breast burdened by an iron cross, / At last to take salvation’s burden. For onl...»