They stood brow to brow, brown to white, black to black, he supporting her elbows, she playing her limp light fingers over his collarbone, and how he "ladored,"he said, the dark aroma of her hair blending with crushed lily stalks,… — 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 Image
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 Image
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 Image
Comrade life, let us march faster, March faster through what's left of the five-year plan. — Vladimir Mayakovsky Copy Share Image
On the pavement of my trampled soul the steps of madmen weave the prints of rude crude words. — Vladimir Mayakovsky Copy Share Image
“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 Image
“Soon, sampled by everyone, Stale and pallid, I’ll come out And mumble toothlessly That today I’m “Remarkably candid.” — Vladimir Mayakovsky Copy Share Image
“Men, crumpled like bed-sheets in hospitals, And women, battered like overused proverbs.” — Vladimir Mayakovsky Copy Share Image
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 Image
“Then there's amortization, the deadliest of all; amortization of the heart and soul.” — Vladimir Mayakovsky Copy Share Image
“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 Image
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 Image