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...and after Pig, Mayakovsky, Malfatto...
Oh Lilja, my permanent image. Metal soul that continually torments my breaths. Unsmooth corners that sting my entrails. Muscles burned by a sick passion, like the residue of a film separated from the matrix. How could such an idea ever come to me?
It was beautiful, that evening, to distinguish you in the cigar smoke slowly levitating. Amid the clinking of ice blocks shaken in half-empty goblets. Laughter, applause, some small ovations. What drove me to dip the pen in that pint of poisoned ink...
I, Vladimir, who could not escape the power of your gaze, who could not separate your slight lavender scent from the sweet smell of familiar sandalwood. I, who did not want to hate those perfect small breasts hidden by a dark veil in the shadow of an evening hat. I who accepted an inconceivable love, crowded, too many heartbeats clashing on your moist skin. Which isn't just mine...and makes me feel a bit...well...Pig.
Aleksandr understood everything. He indeed knew how to put aside the yearning feeling of every beast of man from the first contact with prey. Some professional shots to highlight that white hand and its subtle ornament in perfect contrast with the flush of drawn cheeks. That transverse position from which he shot, managing to spread you, press you, crush you onto the film without causing you any pain. That perspective that wants to see you falling, as if an invisible hand is holding you back from an inevitable crash to the ground. Scream, Lilja! Spread your music, extend your muscles and thunder! Without anger!
You who thunder without anger, an invitation to reading for Gosizdat, with music that explodes deep from the diaphragm into a propaganda manifesto. That music that is seen, perceived, while it emphasizes the throat and puffs the cheeks, stretches the hyoid complex, and pulses the blood in the vocal cords without altering the refinement of your features. Where were you looking, Lilja? With what force did you want to pierce the lens? Those precise, shiny teeth that seem to want to bite at the void. Your body in a jovial leap to bite something.
And those hair wrapped in the scarf...how many times have I caressed them, amidst the fresh scents of a blooming tree until your image's forced removal due to the anomalous sentimental situation. How many needles were needed to make me appear like an idiot leaning against a cold trunk, mocked even by the weak leaves laid on a calm stream...Mayakovsky...
How many hearts have you stolen, how many brains enchanted, heroine of the revolution, altruistic and immortal. Oh Lilja, my beloved...I know you love Osip and I...am just passing through.
Malfatto. Yes, malfatto all that I have created so far, without spirit, without criteria, without a minimum of self-respect, moral and human dignity. I cannot continue and accept all this for more time. And after Pig, Mayakovsky, Malfatto, will others have the sacred right to continue reading me crazy?
Perhaps yes. In the end, we poets are all a bit crazy. We prefer the exacerbated soul to jot down verses that will be read posthumously. A commitment gifted to the stems of chrysanthemums rocked by the wind, where no one will come to squeeze tears on that deserted stone. I, who have decided to banish life, tearing it away from that skin soiled by the dishonor of adultery. I, mad poet, who write my last verses with blood, as an induced fire pierces my flesh, traversed by the foreign body of a lead pellet. I, who dispose of you like the worst of fools, with the hope of leaving you rolling in remorse like pigs in the mud until the end of your days!
I love you, Lilja...
Ever yours, Vladimir.
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