For Vladimir Mayakowsky

Words like express trains,
like galloping coffins,
are still being used like bites of sugar.
like noserags and pallid confections.
In this sickness of the retreating national monastery,
there is a confusion of language with rest after selling,
with chapels,
as they obliterate heads and mug citizens.
Words are not escapes,
words are the thing.
They are being used as a side issue.
All the time they are the circus.
They stand readv for battle,
armed like a tank,
gusting flame.
See how the poet sidles up like a hairdresser?
He cunningly decorates the earth-splitting fires
so they look like the tea-cakes of pages.