Seminar The Flying Proletarian

— Tor Lindstrand @ 13:42

INFLATABLE ARCHITECTURE
SEMINAR – THE FLYING PROLETARIAN

Kungl. Konsthögskolan och KTH-Arkitekturskolan, 19-20 November 2009

Time and Place:

Thursday 19 November:

10.00-17.00, Hus 28, KKH, Skeppsholmen

Friday 20 November:

10.00-17.00  + POST-seminar from 17.00, Arkitekturskolan, Östermalmsgatan

Hi Everyone,

This is the schedule and texts for the workshop this week. In collaboration with the theory course ”New Realities – from Realism to Utopia” at the Art Academy we will spend two days examining different movements between realism and utopia. The starting point being historic texts and contemporary discussions, variations on how we can relate to visionary thinking today. The workshop consists of lectures, text seminars, film screenings, exercises – and further discussions.

Texts

Alain Badiou

http://www.lacan.com/badsold.htm

Boris Buden

http://eipcp.net/transversal/0407/buden2/en

Brian Holmes

http://brianholmes.wordpress.com/2008/10/13/filming-the-world-laboratory/

Owen Hatherley

http://kinofist.blogspot.com/2008/02/elective-affinities.html

Elisabeth Grosz ”The Future of Space – Towards an Architecture of Invention

The Eccentric Manifest, 1922

http://website.lineone.net/~eccentricpress/emcover.html

Extra curriculum

http://www.brlsi.org/proceed05/lithum0505.htm

http://blog.modernmechanix.com/2008/03/24/what-will-life-be-like-in-the-year-2008/

http://bldgblog.blogspot.com/2007/02/sleep-dorms-of-soviet-empire.html

http://www.archinect.com/features/article.php?id=62725_0_23_0_M

http://www.youtube.com/user/spacedoutthebook

Milou Allerholm, KKH

070-7536810

Tor Lindstrand, KTH-Arkitektur

070-7515772

THE FLYING PROLETARIAN

Poem The Flying Proletarian

Mayakovsky 1925

PREFACE

In PRAVDA (The Truth)

the truth is written.

In IZVESTIA (The News) –

the news.

Facts.

You can

put on a table.

While a poet

is as much interested

in that

which will happen in two hundred

years
or

in one.

I.

A WAR THAT WILL HAPPEN NOW

When we

turn the page

of a newspaper,

going through

the news

from the morass overseas,

we come across –

cooked up

by imperialist scientists:

gas,

ray,

unpiloted plane.

Is

a chicken’s fate bitter enough for them?

Helping

humanity

by crossbreeding rays?

No –

from the firmament

a new noose

is made

for workers’ and peasants’

necks.

For a decade

the pages

of all papers

were filled by Death

with mutilation

and woes…

But nonsense

will seem

all these carnages

horror-struck by

forthcoming phantasmagorias.

…………………….

The year 2125.

The sky holds it’s hands cupped

(begging for stars).

It was evening,

to put it simply.

In the sky

as always,

a tiny aeroplane appeared.

The usual one –

sky-writing -

Aerostat.

Moscow.

Moscovites

clambered on to roofs

of forty-storeyed

commune blocks.

-       Shall we see …

what it spells out.

Who?

Whom?

When?

Who to? –

Red Alert.

The pilot

turns on

his smoke,

inscribes

in the sky

a frame.

Traces

in capital letters:

ORDER.

MOBILIZATION.

Later –

a telegram:

Report.

Observers.

East Coast.

Stating:

At five to eight –

on the dot,

at such

an early hour,

the enemy

has extinguished

its most distant lighthouses.

Rocket.

A light

in the darkness.

Preparations –

at feverish pace.

Wing-to-wing,

wing upon wing,

first,

second,

hundredth squadron.

Another rocket!

Burst into flames.

- Did you see it?

Out of hangars

fighters are led.

Encoded.

Passed on

a message

to soviet

sentry posts.

Exemplary order.

We fly

directly,

under the cover

of a smoke screen.

Following the report –

an appeal:

Comrades,

it’s clear!

A threat –

to Europe

and Red Asia.

America –

that defeated bourgeois stronghold –

is raising

its air fleet

against us.

You can’t bury

the working class

in a burrow.

Hand – on a steering wheel!

See – full throttle.

Looked like,

a lethal and choky

gas,

already

enshrouding

millions of heads.

Hurried.

Grabbed headphones.

Thrown by radio:

Hallo!

Hallo!

The engine went silent,

having howled an angry alert.

Went out

above

phosphoric light.

Other people

took their

two-seater cars from little hangars,

flew –

with spouse –

to the local council.

Meeting half way

those who’ve

already been -

to the headquarters.

That way!

That way!!

Where bombs

and mines

were stacked

by an arsenal man

to form a fearful stock.

Radio-demo

-       Comrades!

To a demo! –

radio calling.

Masses

stormily

roused by the sea.

And from Red

Square

an eight-winged combat rose -

a travelling

Comintern tribune.

This image

won’t ever

be forgotten.

In masks,

and gas-dress

the ground

sprawled

as a fantastic model.

And above –

the Comintern Chairman:

-       Comrades!

Today

America

is imposing wars

on the Union

of Workers!

From Shanghai

to the Irish Coast –

his words

transmitted

by radio wave.

Aero-mobilization.

Today

forgot

sleep and slumber.

A billion candles

the artificial

sun

has been switched on,

from airdrome

to airdrome

were running around

cars

of sleepless moscovites.

Light reconnaissance planes,

aluminium dreadnoughts…

In gas-suits,

with knotted muscles,

a worker

fixing

mine suspensions;

with  flying bombs

was packing

chassis.

Headquarters staff

split into groups

cars nearby.

Cutting the sky;

marking

place.

Scoring marks

on stars -

territories of future battles.

A pilot.

Next to him -  children

(with a brother)

helping him

put on

his helmet.

Whilst he

explains

to pioneers and octobrists (cubs),

what the alarm’s for

and what is what:

-       Beaten out of Europe…

out  of Asia…

Yet,

they get

their skates on –

to America then.

In submarines.

Across the ocean.

And there –

Their allies.

The bourgeoisie.

Coolidges.

We

here

have forgotten their name.

We are building plants.

Raising chimneys.

And they

make haste.

They’ve got –

chemistry.

They make gas reek.

Sharpening their teeth.

Then decided –

it’s time for action.

Took their bombs.

Size of a house.

Not a stone

left standing,

not a leaf – hanging.

Will beat …

If we will not beat. –

Forward.

One

aero-machine

slipped out smoothly.

Descended,

looks…

What else is needed?

Then dashed forward –

as if rejoiced –

signalled:

Commander-in-Chief.

An order:

It’s time!

Forward!!

Up to Mars

rotor will carry!

Took off,

aimed megaphones.

The air

thundering

in an old march.

March.

The bourgeoisie

climbing avidly

to the firmament

itself.

Comrade

proletarian,

get on the plane!

Shove out

back,

plant owners,

along the clouds whizzing.

We are pilots

of the workers and peasants

Republic.

Where won’t pass

horse cavalry,

where by foot

you won’t pass –

there

only

a pilot is chasing

enemy birds.

Forward!

Through cloud-mounds!

We are flying,

shining on the wing.

We are pilots

of the workers and peasants

Republic!

Match up

to the enemy,

redden

the road with blood;

establish

a commune

till the very

firmament.

Our flag

amongst the stars

is waving,

workers’

power

nourishing.

We are – pilots,

we are aviatrices

of workers and peasants!

*  *  *

Beginning.

First,

scouts

made a wide semi-circle.

Following scouts –

an arc of fighter planes,

Behind them

gas-carriers

formed an angle.

Storm clouds

from rotors

loom randomly.

Behind them,

almost

covering firmament’s arch multi-eyed,

multiplied

by streetlights

were flying,

grander

than ship docks,

hangars –

at once

about five hundred aeroplanes.

When

swerves

were quick, -

per thousand

melodies and tunes

a throng

of neighbouring workshops

were roaring

whistling voices of

sirens and horns.

After them

following

string of wagons went,

camouflaged

with some

grey-hair colour.

Quiet…

It’s not a cart to hit the ground with!..

Armoury,

stores

of medications,

food…

Underneath them

the ground

was cambering as a bowl.

Waiting

on each

concrete clearing.

Lenin’s

squadron

took off around Minsk…

Joined

winged Smolenskians…

Higher,

higher

spiralled pilots.

To the limit…

And – even higher.

March is over.

Machines -

like dots.

Beneath – squinted

and left the roofs.

Checked.

There is –

oxygen and water.

Food

was supplied

in a flash by machine.

Climbed,

examined

cables and connections,

into the armoury

of  gas proof basements.

Defence!

Plants are buzzing.

Cranes

are loading mines.

Escaped underground

from the enemy’s eye,

factory life

rolling on.

Procession

Flying.

Birds

watching in astonishment.

Flying…

Rotor,

isn’t it a star shining in the dark?

Flying…

Skyward

to the point,

of frost on the body.

Flying…

Hardly

catching up

with ourselves,

flying.

With time

speed

does miracles:

passed

in a day

a couple of days;

two suns –

in 24 hours;

and twice

rose the moon.

When we

caught up

with Earth’s rotation –

hundreds of places

glimpsed

the eye.

The dial

showed

them

one

motionless hour.

Rose,

having cut

the entire air.

Stifling

with open wide mouth,

struggling

with a hand

that has lost it’s weight,

were taking

oxygen.

Scouts

ploughed

into storm

and thunder

having thrown

thunderous stupor,

in the glass calm

ocean

threw themselves like canon balls,

swam

churning the water.

Someone

exploded

on a floating mine.

Instantly

all the rest

hastened,

took leave under water,

secured

steel armour.

Broke surface,

having passed a dangerous place,

shaken off

drops

from propellers;

and back

to the firmament,

inflamed and flushed,

ellipsis
of machines

incrusted.

Flying…

Minutes…

days…

weeks…

Flying.

Through scattered sun,

through lunar shoal

flying.

Attack.

Commander

calmly

moves leathern

on two

rollers

spooled scroll.

The coast is clear.

Suddenly –

as if shot down,

darted -

an aeroplane.

Nothing.

Just

a huge ray

stretches

its smashing

arm.

Appeared

as a desert mirage,

a hundred thousand

machines

of enemy squadron.

With a pointed

ray,

extermination preparing,

from ten directions

- nothing less than that –

zinging,

flying,

monsters were whizzing -

of light,

of steel,

of aluminium.

A river wind

lurched

machines.

To the left

they lifted

along the slope.

On the right

wing

three “K” rose,

three

black

“K”

Ku Klux Klan.

Wind

from the other side came on,

to the right

lurched disorderly –

the dead black

appeared

on the left wing

a fascist

squiggle.

A second.

Stormed wildly.

And gone.

Vanished,

in smoke shroud.

On each aero-machine,

on each side,

as if

a spark –

in a gas tank,

two words,

exploded hearts:

Alarm!

Enemy!

Aero-battle.

Can’t distinguish

horizon blurred.

Sky,

air,

water –

merged!

In this

azure –

the final battle.

The Reds,

The Whites

- the ultimate joust.

Incredible battle!

Not a single clatter!!

Neither canon-balls,

nor bullets I see flying –

only

rotors’

mad mechanics

only

rays and chemistry

alone.

Chased,

got carried away with the catch,

suddenly –

turned

back.

Hands dangled,

and on the purple

face –

popped out

fixed-gazed eyes.

Squadrons,

assault,

digging storm clouds.

Searchlight

his round eye

opens –

and there aren’t

any squadrons.

Just falling

down

wreckages and embers.

Now and again,

invisible,

turret with turret

approach,

and only then

was thunder.

As in the old days

fought

hand to hand

two

grappling

air dreadnoughts.

One defeated,

at once -

an idyll:

helpless,

as puppies,

dreadnoughts were led into

hangars,

broken-down

right here

in the air

riveting and repairing.

During the night,

pitted with stars,

four times

the day’s course

changed,

but the battle

still grows,

escalates,

becoming wilder

day by day.

Battle’s fifth day

still many

dying.

The enemy

retreated for a moment.

Then

a thousand

plainly seen and fearsome

machines

took the direct route.

Over the top!

Into the rays!! –

Without turning.

Into the gas!!! –

The gas isn’t nauseous.

Invulnerable,

full steam ahead, unpiloted.

Wipe out

all

ahead of themselves.

*  *  *

Bending the bar.

Commander’s knotted brow.

Seems – it’s all over!

One of our charges,

flips rotor –

and plummets

as a fly,

with folded wings.

Ours – are ailing.

Ours withdrawing.

Job –

done.

Tonne is dropped.

No mutilation,

no pain,

not a wound…

The city

wiped out

without a groan

by a tonne

of choking

poison.

Tens

of capitals

the Invisible has eaten away,

no one,

nothing is given mercy of the gas.

To Moscow

itself

front-line machines

full steam ahead,

as to the parade,

as on to display…

Already

those still hopeful

were called fibbers.

But pilots,

fulfilling their duty,

aeroplanes

circle

spiralling

amassed

above Moscow itself.

Spreading

across the full

celestial womb,

the entire

steadfast

mechanical spirit,

enemy was flying,

attacking steadily.

Already –

four kilometres,

into two…

Flashing

in black frames

news

of unavoidable clarity.

Radio

loudly

blaring:

- Revolution in danger!

Grinding sounds

even a calm face

grimaced, -

that was

the Moscow

of  basement residents

tightening hatches.

From above

one can make

no sense -

as they crowd;

and those –

in dirigibles,

yes – to the Urals.

Taking with them

wives and children.

Approaching

machine-specks

are growing,

multiplying

in celestial chintz.

Now they will bombard!

Now it will burst!

Now

thrown gas-bombs

will pound.

Well then,

lets prepare ourselves

for a choky death.

Is this us

bowing,

begging for mercy?

Straining

all

airpower,

enfolded in silence

the Soviet Land.

Victory.

Suddenly… -

unbelievable! -

as if

someone

plucked all at once

enemy

machines.

To our leaning out

pilots’

surprise,

screwed up

and smashed

grounded.

Not daring to rejoice –

isn’t there a catch?

Descended –

maybe parading the ground? –

Engines

jabbered,

groaned,

plunged

to the scene of event.

Descended,

close to the ground…

A crater,

made by the fallen, -

wreckages

of aluminium,

nickel…

Fair and square.

That’s it. For sure.

Pilots climbed out.

Furrowed brow.

Thousand questions.

Answer –

mute.

Only

approaching morning

radio-answer to enigma:

-       New York.

Everyone!

Everyone!

Everyone!

Radio.

Workers,

peasants

and flyers

greeted

by pilots

of squadron one.

Let them

illuminate

Moscow

with million candles power.

Since this moment

forever are wars

over.

We –

Moscovites’ squadron –

battled through.

No one

saw.

Underwater –

voyage to America.

Took off.

At night

loud-hailer

set up.

Bass

for all New York.

Workers!

Comrades and brothers!

How soon

the mist of nations

will disperse?

For what pieces of silver,

for what payment

us – Europeans –

you

betray?

Now,

hounded:

-       Go!

Fold

Europe

in gas genocide! –

Tomorrow

victor will return,

to hang a yoke

on you

right here.

Is your life

gifted

by a bourgeois?

Squeezing out

your

blood

and sweat.

Fuse

with us

in solidarity.

In one commune –

no slaves,

no masters!

Policemen –

fox after fox –

on aerobikes…

Ray of a searchlight…

In vain! –

Swaying rhythmically,

loud-hailers

blew the voices

of the best

Comintern orators.

No one!

Radio

can’t be tied up,

nor arrested.

See

them -

hubbub.

Workers came out,

the police holding back.

City

as if lit

glimmers –

flag after flag

flares.

The mines

for us prepared,

placed under billionaires’

mansions.

Blessed

themselves

with banners,

attacked

Arsenal.

Just like Moscow

hundreds of years ago

October

thunderstorm was expanding.

Bass

thunder

miles away,

destroying

cunning

castles.

Radiofort…

Guard –

thrown.

Attacked.

Half occupied.

The other!

Fight,

is hot for an hour.

Some lever or other

gripped.

Jerked…

turned again…

Moment, -

way too long -

less than a moment, -

a thousand

taut strings

a howl cut short!

A thousand

monsters

lay near Moscow.

Joy.

Hurray shuddered

mouths

wanted to yell more,

yell till sated, -

already

across the vast sky

a wide telegram

is drawn out

by ‘Radiorosta’:

Peace!

Nations fighting

over.

Hail

the moment!

Mighty

American Federation

joins

the Soviet Union!

Doubts -

noone  has.

Signed:

American Revolutionary Committee

Return

In the morning

from the West

dots appeared.

Hurtled,

both themselves

and the march growing:

We are pilots

of the workers and peasants

Republic.

Not in vain

were we flying –

the firmament

is cleared.

Peasant!

Proletarian!

Lower the plane!

The plant owners

rolled

down,

whistling through clouds.

We are pilots

of the workers and peasants

Republic!

Enemy

cavalry

will not invade,

neither bird,

nor foot.

Our pilot

everywhere

chases enemy forces.

Our flag

waves amongst the stars,

nourishing workers’ power.

We are – aviatrices,

we are – pilots

of workers and peasants!

*  *  *

II

Future Ways.

Today

A room –

is,

surely,

not a grove.

In it

neither picnics,

nor battles to arrange.

Still

not for me –

damned

floor space:

with my

constitution –

try and live in a couple of square feet!

Old men,

old women,

lady with a toy-dog,

uncountable

children -

here’s the populace.

Not an apartment,

an Eskimo

or Kirghiz

shantytown.

A child –

isn’t a puppy, you know.

All day long –

working hard.

Now he

knocks you over

with his ball,

then

locks you in

the closet.

Between belongings -

footpaths,

more devious than

Crimean ones.

Noise -

even the most lamblike

will fly off the handle.

All day long-

calls,

as in a bell tower.

In a batch,

solo,

lingering,

abrupt…

To get this

nest -

between cages

and pickles,

where there’s even

no place

to perch,

you run around

all day,

fending off

expulsion

with the union mandate,

and paper from CILCS (Commission for Improving Living Conditions of Scientists)

You come home

at night,

done in by the city.

With a lathered mug, -

the wish to clean it.

In the wash room

darkness

someone talented

put out

washing to dry,

slapping on the mug.

Br-r-r-r!

The kitchen reeks,

feeling sick.

Crouching down.

Reaching

my mug from window sill

to the open pane.

See,

in the sky –

aero-machines romp.

I’m stuck to

the glass,

pegged into the frame.

Those are who

must

rearrange anew

our

sardine-like

drab way of life!

Will be.

Some future year

arrives with zeros.

Ground to a halt

the last

thunder battles.

Moscow

will be

neither alleys,

nor streets -

only airdromes

and houses.

Coming days

are obscure,

unknown.

But –

for fun

I’ll describe

a future citizen,

spending

a day.

Morning.

Eight.

Shouts

politely

radio alarm-clock:

Comrade –

get up,

if you aren’t asleep!

Factory –

beckons.

For now

no alarm-clock

orders?

Good bye!

Ta-ta!

Half asleep,

but already –

agile and business-like,

the citizen

switches on

electro-self-shaver.

In a minute –

combed;

cheeks -

even slicker than those of

citizeness de Milo

Venus.

Pushed the plug,

lips apart:

electro-tooth-brush -

whoops! –

teeth glisten.

Servants – none!

Pushbutton call,

fills itself

the bath splashed

under him.

First

soaps -

then:

scrubs and loofahs.

Ringing –

in front of the citizen’s

nose

a tea-tray

brings

itself.

Getting dressed –

no jackets,

no trousers;

a shirt,

size -

not ill-fitting.

All at once

he’s clothed entirely,

from heels to hands

in silk

of expertly cut cloth.

Pair of feet -

in shoes…

A bell -

at the window.

Straight

to the bedside

from celestial womb

a winged postman

flutters in.

Not an eviction order,

nor a tax notification.

A letter from beloved

and several from friends.

Son comes running

a husky

tot.

-       Good bye,

I’m flying off to uni.

-       Where is Vania?

-  In the garden

he is,

fluttering with nanny.

To Work.

Across the room – a lift.

Came out –

seated,

to a smooth surface

of flowery roof.

Heading

for the place

of work,

to the very

eaves

flies an airship.

In reverie

(no cheating in mind)

the citizen

tries to board

on the fly.

With the most

polite faces,

aero-police

stopped

the citizen.

No case-reports,

threaten no fines…

Just –

a polite

censure.

Leaning out

from the nacelle,

in different voices

he shouts

to familiar flyers:

- Comrade,

where are you hurrying?

Come on!

Fly over

with your spouse

sometime

to see me!

When you are free –

for half an hour

flutter in

for aero-ball!

- All right!

Would you like

to change your seat?

Sit down,

there’s a place in our nacelle! –

Changed seat…

Fifteen minutes.

And so -

our citizen

arrives

at the works.

Labour.

Head-Air.

Factory.

Generally they make

compressed

air

for inter-planetary transport.

A cube

for a cabin – of any width,

all day

breathe alpine air.

As –

for centuries

from ‘Maggi

broths were made.

The same

from clouds

artificial sour cream

and milk

are produced.

Soon

cow’s name

will be forgotten.

Can you

milk

that much

from cow’s udder!

Factory.

Forty-floored building.

Got off.

The forty –

in fierce zeal.

Ultra-clean.

No soot,

no smoke.

Lift

delivers

one to each floor.

No buzzing,

no crowds!

One keyboard –

like an ‘Underwood’.

Nice work!

Easy already,

but further

the radio –

music beating time.

Hit letters,

right ones,

all

the rest

engines managed.

Four hours.

Flashed rapidly.

Everyone –

with air,

sour cream,

and milk.

Won’t be sulking,

like dozy owls.

Four hours –

working day.

Cheerily, like a squirrel…

More cheerily.

Shower!

Day is done –

fly for lunch!

Lunch.

Departed.

Children.

Shouted:

– Quiet! –

Caught up

with children

flying from school.

- Where to, young spawns?

Time for lunch!

No cookery,

no routine!

Dished up people’s meals

aero-canteens

are flying.

Stood up,

sat down.

Took,

ate.

If you want – of two courses,

if you want – of five, -

for all tastes,

for all appetites.

Dishes –

self-cleaning.

Have eaten –

off you go!

Brings

to the ear

a radiophone.

Mutters,

whilst stroking children:

Put me through to Chukhlomskaya!

Chukhlomskaya commune?..

I ask for –

Ivanov the Tenth! –

- Which?

Shaven? –

– No.

Whiskered!..

- How are you doing?

Good day.

- Well –

just

flew over the wicker fence.

Am tending the flock.

What do you need?

-       What do you mean “what”?!

Too long

since we’ve seen each other.

Fly over

for aero-ball match.

- All right!

One more hour

I tend

and will glide

at about five.

I maybe late…

Not overly – I guess.

Village

entrusted me

a minor matter.

Bread crops –

scorched by the heat,

it’s me

controlling

artificial clouds.

We need

to make rain,

tricky – with no hail.

Good bye! –

Studies.

Now –

lets study.

Citizen

in a flash

approaches

The Higher

Sour Cream

Institute.

Comparing

up-to-date

technical figures,

laboratory

studies

sour cream issues…

For now we distinguish –

between occupational categories.

Say –

labourer loading,

while poetry is –

for spiritual noblemen.

At that time

won’t exist

more honourable

or less…

Shoemakers,

as much as milk-maids–

all geniuses.

*  *  *

Game.

In an hour –

at home.

Rest.

Change.

Instead of shirt –

sportsman’s attire.

In race machine,

faster than any wind,

full steam ahead,

with

a huge ball.

Sky –

all in nimble aircraft.

Figures of adults,

child figures.

Old people

came out,

forgot their apathy.

Red – against yellow.

Matches – tournaments.

Toss

a ball

from heights

like this,

and you – fly close,

catch with a net.

Frankly speaking,

football -

is boring.

A thing to do

only perhaps -

for the horse nation.

Up here –

it’s great!

Boots don’t wear out.

Nose

won’t be smashed

with a ball.

Everyone somersaults –

needed,

or not;

glides, loops

the loop.

At last

one

misses with his net.

Then:

- Hurray!

Won a point! –

Up,

down,

forward,

backwards, -

do a somersault

and glide further.

No one breathless,

no frown –

as if

not responsible workers,

but dolphins.

When rain pours

together with wind -

go higher

above clouds

and go at it further.

Gets dark,

boring

to quit the game;

catch up the Sun,

and day again.

At last

got tired

of tossing

and catching.

Descended

and flew

to canteen’s window.

A button.

Pressed.

Tea table.

Son is telling:

– Today

by accident

broke a wing.

Crossed to Peter’s,

otherwise

would have been late

for arithmetic class.

Got a free hour

(no class),

flew

with Peter

to catch a comet.

H-u-u-u-ge one!

Almost mile and a half – length.

The two of us

barely

held it by its tail.

Then

threw it away –

far too big.

It’s forbidden

to schlep to school

with comets. –

Sister:

- Today

wind’s fault

a ball slithered

from three thousand metres.

Had to descend –

to spool the thread.

In the wind

even became

ruffled. –

The junior

all

preoccupied.

Is sitting,

writes in his diary:

Today

at school –

a practical class.

We were deciding –

is there not

or is there god.

Our opinion –

religion is opium.

Inspected an image –

copy of god.

After

with teacher

flew skyward.

Prove it – yourself!

Sky inspection,

from inside

and outside.

Neither gods,

nor angels

were detected.

For pop,

not to lose

a single moment,

radio

was droning

books pages.

Evening.

Call.

-       Hallo!

Can’t catch the name…

Oh!

It’s you!

Hi, darling!

Am coming!

Immediately!

In five minutes

take in stride

the full-length sky.

In such a weather

it’s nice to travel.

Wait

near the cloud –

under the Great Bear.

Good bye! –

Got in,

moved backwards

squares,

buildings…

Cheek – to cheek,

waist – to waist, -

maybe three times circumnavigated

the sky.

Along Milky Ways

along comet curves,

behind –

as a foal –

a tethered

aeroplane.

Expanse!

Not

Petrovski park,

where everything

bares the trace

of lovers’ bottoms.

Whilst walking

Tells of

the past

the year ‘25.

-       Today

listened to

radio-books.

Well…

those were

not heydays but petty times.

Find some digs,

even then – no bed of roses.

Hand in to house committee,

data to financial officer.

Now we’re here – bliss!

Expanse –

doesn’t squeeze.

The Universe!

Let’s take – at random.

Then

in spring

we’re dragging ourselves to dachas.

Travelling

by rail.

Puffing,

barely crawling.

The same as,

a swallow

put on its legs,

for it to travel,

shifting

one foot then the other.

Turn aside,

walk in the woods –

not allowed!

Observe the rail.

Also

in ancient times

existed

so called

automobiles.

Again –

‘all due respect’ –

means of connection!

By air –

not possible.

By water –

can’t.

Through the forest –

not possible.

Over the house –

no way.

So, tell,

is this a machine?

Tyres blow,

troubles –

masses.

Even

up a street-lamp

it couldn’t climb.

Quickly –

broken.

Now, I wish –

veer sideways.

Is a ride –

with a steam locomotive!

Kerosene stove!

Now

connect

wing and wheels

and together with a house

up

and dash.

Wish

to stop –

there’s  – Vinnicesia,

here’s – Nice.

Patients

in the old days

sunbathing

prescribed.

Even

during the day

arms crossed –

waiting,

for a sun beam

to emerge from the cloud.

These days

fly

even from the pole itself.

Bask!

Make use of it!.. –

Beloved

imagining old days.

Below them

cities,

settlements

are floating

illuminated –

everyday amusements!

Urals

radio station

for entire

Siberia

blares concerts.

Out of mischief,

blurted such tones,

that would burst

with envy

all Shaliapins.

Later

in cinematographic rage

on the clouds –

feet-high mirages.

That’s not

‘Khudozhestvennii’

or Ars’,

packed with walls –

stalls and circle.

From the ground

to Mars itself

place yourself,

if you please – in stalls,

or circle.

At last –

in future ages

this will also happen –

right

in the sky

dances arranged.

No patter,

no dust raised,

gracefully

curving wings,

raving

fantastic quadrille.

Radio –

quadrille storm.

Around

millions

of flying tables.

Drink and chill out –

just ring.

Non-alcoholic.

From shoemaker

to tailor -

no one

can stand

alcoholic odour.

For a patient –

shot is a dose,

even this

under chloroform

he ingests.

No stanza

makes anyone

sick.

Not life

but dolce far niente!

Communicate this

to the regret

of poet comrades.

Unlike now –

thousands

pile out

verses,

that make you feel ill.

But here –

Great!

Not a dispute,

not a single session –

civilised!

Half eleven.

Radio yells:

-       Citizens!

Reminder –

bed time! –

At a speed

that whizzes,

right from

the ball’s commotion

citizen,

makes

steep turn,

flies into

bedroom window.

Gets off his plane.

Button.

Touch it!

Plane folds itself

and in the corner,

like an umbrella.

Gets off his clothes.

To a membrane –

three words:

- Tomorrow

wake me up

half seven! –

Pleased citizen

turns

to his side,

yawns

and closes lids.

That’s how

spent

his days

our citizen

of the XXX century.

*  *  *

III

APPEAL.

Winged

days

are far away.

Long wait

before we

shout with joy:

- Here they are! –

But I –

future days agitator –

today

take a step at least

closer towards them.

For you

to resemble

birds’ children,

seated

in a cosy

nacelle, -

with an iron

we fire

into your eyes daily

letters –

S. A. F. F. (Society of Air Fleet Friends)

For you

in the bright,

joyful hour of the future

to soar

in any sky  -

at this instant

flyers

perish,

into Khodunka (airfield near Moscow)

cockpits crashing.

For human life

in future

century

soar to the sky

as a rocket –

I’m

writing

these

lines,

tiring

evening after evening,

Worker!

Peasant!

Touch to double check,

that

the sky –

is yours!

With hundred thirty million’s power

a desire

to fly

you feed!

Enough

crawling like a louse!

Will find -

where to let loose!

Give

the sky!

Ourselves we

sprinkle rye –

clouds

will spill above the bread.

Give

the sky!

Sharpened knife

of words

stab

in future fibs!

Give

the sky!

1925

0 Comments »

No comments yet.

RSS feed for comments on this post. TrackBack URI

Leave a comment

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 Unported License.
(c) 2017 Design Process Studio | powered by WordPress with Barecity