Might have been a different woman yesterday: even as a ghost, he finds it hard to be unequivocal.
Bumbling bluegrey carp in a murky pond, the post-noon too hot to bother,
Sure of it he is,
She’s got eyes for the stagnancy (and if blinded tonight might be happier),
The laziness from populace to governance, there’s a useful idiot King gone to quoits and bowls and falconry,
A no-good Piers Gaveston beside him, full of pleas to be indulged,
While at the palace a Richelieu places his seal to the great charters, his job all spun in disguise.
Here they are at the park — they never do rise up in the streets (just over there), the people, into mobs formed by the glue perishing.
Mayakovsky had understood it in his own lifetime,
As to the people, sleep seems their chosen circumstance,
Their luxuries, on condition that their eyelids are sewn and their senses sheared,
Quickly, their faith invested in pomanders and nosegays,
Since God calls it blasphemy to even notice the dirt,
Beggars are one thing, but they also recoil from the dead.
Pretending that she is not the woman of his interest,
Enjoying his temporary sensory advantage.
Letting her roam free, bumping into things,
Creating dispute among the children and the mothers of the play-area,
Not a perpetuator, abnegator, in her own right,
Laziness is most contagious… what, however, had she been doing here when he bumped into her?
There’s lot of mothers who wouldn’t have got off first base with your opening question, remind yourself of that, Mayakovsky.
—No, I’m not blind to it, balance is in the ear, she calls across to him.