I perceive Mayakovsky’s burden, and shoulder his analogous suffering: I too have an overgrown heart
with tributaries of fire; it’s core pierced repeatedly as a voodoo effigy! His spirit injected me with a
primaeval line; as the proverbial pariah, I brachiated from verse to gibbous verse as he redeemed me,
and fuelled my proletarian spirit. In my svelte-partitioned, asbestos bunker, in sub-zero temperatures,
squalor, destitution, with no illumination but the diminishing flushes of a leaping taper, no heating
and no running water, I composed a concatenation of grenade-like cantos: each time I howled, a
paroxysm of vows froze in the atmosphere like fuming liquid disgorges – autonomous as magic – into
hyperborean, sky-ridden crescents in Siberia! This is how pertinacious I am. Critics and crones will not
stand – as adversaries – in my way: nor control anything I have to affirm. I – the unbridled versifier –
will never conform to lyrical dictatorship! I will not succumb to producing squirming, diluted words,
which skim across a bereft recto, as a sidewinder in the Sahara: whimsically slinking and dissolving
into a melodic mirage; with no rationale, or relevance to anything, over and above the vile, bit and
bridled, parsimonious, paddocks of the riff-raff bourgeoisie. They kill horses don’t they?
Along with impecunious, proletarian balladeers, like me! But I have afforded myself strict poetic
impunity; my intellectual dressage and indefatigable repartee is first-class: ten clear-rounds, and
I gallop, bareback, marauding riotously; my frenzied hooves gouge out huge, extremist limericks.
You can’t even lead this horse to water! It will never accept a critic’s drink! Words? Less is more?
Less is less! There is no room for trivial altercations. Tell a ravenous pauper less is more; then
listen to his or her riposte. My cursor is no protector of my jugular: I rip apart the very fabric of
our society with disturbing clarity. If my head rolls from the proverbial block, it will bounce as a
poetically-incorrect bomb, athwart enunciated oceans, into prospective generations. When I die,
it will be my well-earned, canto-resurrection: my wordy epiblasts will transform into a sturdy,
diamond-spangles poniard and skewer, repeatedly, as a serial killer, into the heart of future
poetics and politics. My periphrastic harangues are adamant keys, which lead to identifying the
potency of those who are assigned to marc in Mayakovsky’s tumultuous army.
He has spiked my psyche with his valiant possession: interposed progency In my spine; I
shuddered with the certainty of his distinct presence! He pronounced this: “It was I who
summoned you. Don’t try to escape!” Mayakovsky is my leitmotiv of a man with endless
candour: and no mistake! Faith and substance are fusillades from a subversive, elegiac
repeater: fired at point-blank range, they perforate the pundit’s supercilious cranial form,
triggering a strategy of magnitude, by an unanticipated Futurist conscript. There will always be
the necessity for perceptive recruits to announce Further, caustic quotations. I blazon! Not
muffled by gauze on a lesion, as a dying soldier: but I exude my unique poetic lifeblood on this
pallid beggar – the sheet – and see it surge and gush, as a flirtatious, shocking pink, Schiaparelli
creation, post-prohibition! Vendettas targeted at me are the very hub of my motivations. The
more critics attack me, the more fuel they extol me with: that very fuel fills the metric vestibule
with an abundance of vehemence and invincible credibility. With Mayakovsky as my ally,
I would say my critics would die before I! I remain intellectually quarantined by
dogmatic, feminist critique: as the rabid reactionary and sybaritic heroine, full of
testosterone and a man’s brain! I stand meticulous, cantankerous, obstreperous,
scurrilous, salacious, dauntless and relentless. A rabble-rouser rhymester! Long
lives the Revolution! Yes! I am the firebrand incar