The poet – a handsome, twenty-two-year-old – teases a philistine, softened thought with a bloody patch of his heart. In his soul there is no old tenderness, but he can turn himself inside out – so that there are only solid lips. And he will be impeccably tender, not a man, but a cloud in his pants!
He recalls how once in Odessa his beloved, Maria, promised to come to him. Expecting it, the poet melts his forehead with a window glass, his soul groans and writhes, nerves rush with desperate tap dance. It’s already the twelfth hour that falls, like the head of an executed person. Finally, Maria appears – sharp, like “Nate!” – and says that she is getting married. Trying to look absolutely calm, the poet feels that his “I” is not enough for him and someone from him escapes stubbornly. But it is impossible to jump out of your own heart, in which a fire is burning. You can only vostonat in the centuries the last cry about this fire.
The poet wants to put “nihil” over everything that was done before him. He no longer wants to read books, because he understands how hard they write, how long – before the song begins to squeak – the foolish wobble of imagination floundering in the mire of the heart. And while the poet does not find the right words, the street is writhing without language – she has nothing to shout and talk. In the mouth of the street corpses of dead words are decomposed. Only two words live, fat, – “bastard” and “borsch”. And other poets rush away from the street, because these words can not be sung by a young lady, love and a flower under the dew. They catch up with the streets of thousands – students, prostitutes, contractors – for whom the nail in his own boot is more terrible than Goethe’s imagination. The poet...agrees with them: the smallest grain of life is the most valuable thing that he can do. He, obscured by the tribe of today, sees in the thorns crown of revolutions the sixteenth year and feels himself a forerunner. In the name of this future, he is ready to trample down his soul and, bloody, give as a banner.
Well, when the yellow sweatshirt from the examination is wrapped! The poet is disgusted with the Severyanin, because the poet today does not have to tweet. He foresees that soon the lampposts will uplift the bloody carcasses of the carpenters, one will take a stone, a knife or a bomb, and in the sky a red sunset like the Marseillaise will die.
Seeing the eyes of the Virgin on the icon, the poet asks her: why give a shining tavern crowd, which again prefers Barabbas to the spit-crooked Golgotha? Perhaps the most beautiful of the sons of the Mother of God is he, the poet and the thirteenth apostle of the Gospel, and the names of his poems will someday baptize children.
He again and again recalls the inconspicuous charm of his Mary’s lips and asks her body, as Christians ask – “Give us this day our daily bread.” Her name is the same for him as God, he will cherish her body, as a disabled person will save his one leg. But if Maria rejects the poet, he will leave, pouring the way with the blood of the heart, to his father’s house. And then he will ask God to arrange a carousel on the tree of the study of good and evil and ask him why he did not invent kisses without pain, and call him a half-educated, tiny bojik.
The poet is waiting for the sky to take off his hat in response to his challenge! But the universe is asleep, having put a huge ear on the paw with the glittering stars.