On Mayakovsky’s head, the palm of the sun is the priest of the world, the surrenderer of all sins. The earth says to him: “Now let go of you!”
Let the stupid historians, who were taught by contemporaries, write that the poet lived a boring and uninteresting life. Let him know that he will drink his morning coffee in the Summer Garden. The day of his descent into the world was absolutely like everything, no signs were burning in the sky of his Bethlehem. But how can he not glorify himself if he feels himself to be an unbroken continuity, and each of his movements an inexplicable miracle? His most precious mind can come up with a new two-legged or three-legged animal. So that he could turn the winter into summer, and water into wine, under his wool jacket, he has an extraordinary lump.
With its help, miracles can be performed by all people – laundresses, bakers, shoemakers. And to see Mayakovsky, this is an unprecedented miracle of the twentieth century, pilgrims leave the coffin of the Lord and ancient Mecca. Bankers, grandees and doji cease to understand: why did they heat expensive money, if the heart is everything? They hate the poet. In the hands with which he boasted, they give a gun; his tongue is covered with gossip. He is forced to drag the day’s yoke, driven into an earth corral. On his brains “Law”, on the heart of the chain – “Religion”, the core of the globe is
And in the middle of the goldmine of money lives the Lord of All – an irresistible enemy of Mayakovsky. He is dressed in smart pants, His belly looks like a globe. When all around die, He reads Locke’s novel with a happy ending, for Him Phidias sculpts from the marble of lush women, and God – His quick cook – prepares the meat pheasant. He is not affected by the revolution, nor by the change of the drivers of the human herd. To Him there are always crowds of people, His most beautiful woman inclines to His hand, calling His hairy fingers the names of Mayakovsky’s poems.
Seeing this, Mayakovsky comes to the pharmacist for a remedy for jealousy and longing. He offers him poison, but the poet knows about his immortality. Mayakovsky ascends into the sky. But the vaunted sky seems to him close to just a licked surface. Verdi’s music sounds on the celestial firmament, angels live importantly. Gradually Mayakovsky gets used to heavenly life, meets new aliens, among whom his friend Abram Vasilyevich. He shows newly arrived majestic props of the worlds. Everything here is in terrible order, at rest, in rank. But through many centuries of heavenly life, the heart begins to make noise in the poet. There is a longing, he imagines some kind of earthly appearance. Mayakovsky looks at the ground from above. Next to him he sees an old father who looks at the outlines of the Caucasus. Boredom covers Mayakovsky! Showing the worlds numbers of incredible speed,
On Mayakovsky’s land, they are mistaken for a dyer who fell from a roof. Over the centuries, conducted by a poet in the sky, nothing has changed here. On the slope of the equator from Chicago through the Tambov rolling rubbles, ramming mountains, seas, pavements. Everyone is guided by the same enemy of the poet – in the form of an idea, something like a devil, then shining by God behind a cloud. Mayakovsky is preparing to take revenge on Him.
He is standing over the Neva, looking at a senseless city, and suddenly sees a beloved who is walking over the house with rays. Only then does Mayakovsky begin to recognize the streets, houses and all his earthly torments. He welcomes the return of his love madness! From the casual passerby, he learns that the street where the beloved lives is now called the name of Mayakovsky, who thousands of years ago shot himself under her window.
The poet looks out the window at the sleeping favorite – as young as thousands of years ago. But then the moon becomes the bald head of his longtime enemy; the morning comes. The one whom the poet took for his beloved, turns out to be someone else’s wife, the wife of engineer Nikolayev. The doorman tells the poet that the beloved Mayakovsky, according to the old legend, threw himself on the poet’s body from the window.
Mayakovsky stands on the burning fire of unthinkable love and does not know which sky to turn to now. The world under him tightens: “With the saints, rest!”