On I’ll pass, dragging my huge love behind me. On what feverish night, deliria-ridden, by what Goliaths was I begot – I, so big and by no one needed? — Vladimir Mayakovsky Copy Share Image
If you like I'll be furious flesh elemental, or- changing to tones that the sunset arouses- if you like- I'll be extraordinary gentle, not… — Vladimir Mayakovsky Copy Share
I understand the power and the alarm of words - Not those that they applaud from theatre-boxes, but those which make coffins break from… — Vladimir Mayakovsky Copy Share
Our planet is poorly equipped for delight. One must snatch gladness from the days that are. In this life it's not difficult to die.… — Vladimir Mayakovsky Copy Share
Comrade life, let us march faster, March faster through what's left of the five-year plan. — Vladimir Mayakovsky Copy Share
On the pavement of my trampled soul the steps of madmen weave the prints of rude crude words. — Vladimir Mayakovsky Copy Share
“You entered, Abrupt like “Take it!”, Mauling suede gloves, you tarried, And said: “You know,- I’m soon getting married.” Get married then. It’s all… — Vladimir Mayakovsky Copy Share
“Soon, sampled by everyone, Stale and pallid, I’ll come out And mumble toothlessly That today I’m “Remarkably candid.” — Vladimir Mayakovsky Copy Share
“Men, crumpled like bed-sheets in hospitals, And women, battered like overused proverbs.” — Vladimir Mayakovsky Copy Share
Gentle souls! You play your love on the violin. The crude ones play it on the drums violently. But can you turn yourselves inside… — Vladimir Mayakovsky Copy Share
“Then there's amortization, the deadliest of all; amortization of the heart and soul.” — Vladimir Mayakovsky Copy Share
“Oleg Bard: I understand, but by virtue of that power of imagination which, according to [Georgi] Plekhanov, is granted to Marxists, I can already… — Vladimir Mayakovsky Copy Share
A line is a fuse that's lit. The line smolders, the rhyme explodes— and by a stanza a city is blown to bits. — Vladimir Mayakovsky Copy Share
“Love for us is no paradise of arbors — to us love tells us, humming, that the stalled motor of the heart has started… — Vladimir Mayakovsky Copy Share
