i felt that

yesterday i felt a breeze on the small of my back and turned to look outside right as the hail started rapping on the window. i realize this indoors breeze sent anticipation fluttering into my belly, averting my gaze. looking away must, by definition, always lead to seeing something else.

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A Letter to Tatiana Yakoleva
by Mayakovsky


Dedicated to I...


In the caresses of lips
or hands
in the tremblings of bodies
near and dear to me
the red colour
of my motherland
must also
burning be.

I dislike
the love
that Paris boasts
of females one adorns
with silks and fashions;
who stretch out dreamily,
saying:
"Tu es beau!"
with a bitch's
animal passion.

You alone
equal me in height,
stand now beside me,
brow to brow,
and about that
oh so important night
let's talk
like human beings now.

Five p.m.
and since that time,
let people
of the dreaming pines
depopulate
the inhabited city
I hear only
argumentative whines
of trains
for Barcelona quitting.

On the heaven's black
lightning acts,
thunder
tamed
in the drama of heaven.

That's not thunder,
simply the fact
of jealousy
moving mountains even.

Don't believe the raw stuff,
stupid words and idle.
Don't be frightened
by these reelings.

I'll tame,
I'll bridle
gentry-offsprung
feelings.

Passion's measles
scabs only leave,
but happinesss
unwitherable ever.

I'll be long,
I'll be brief,
talking only in poetry's fever.

Enough
of jealousy,
wives,
tears, --
Eyelids swell
fittingly I weave.

I'm not myself,
but I'm jealous, dear,
of Soviet Russia
even.

I saw on shoulders
rags and tatters,
TB
licked them
with a sighing cough.

We're not to blame,
so what's the matter?

A hundred million
were badly off.
We can only rectify
a few
for such a gentle sport.

We're needed in Moscow,
me and you,
there're not enough
of our long-legged sort.

But with those legs
you won't be passing
through snow
and typhoid-typhoons.

Here they give them
for caressing
at banquets
for oil-tycoons.

You furrow your forehead
dont be afraid
eye-brow arcs straighten to bands.

Come to me so,
or in the cradle
of my great
big
clumsy hands.

You don't want to?

You'll stay behind and winter there?

Well that insult
to the general account
is gathered.

Just the same,
sometime or other,
I'll take you, dear,
from Paris
single
or together.

-----

neighborhood #4 (7 kettles) arcade fire

I am waitin' 'til I don't know when,
cause I'm sure it's gonna happen then.
Time keeps creepin' through the neighborhood,
killing old folks, wakin' up babies
just like we knew it would.

All the neighbors are startin' up a fire,
burning all the old folks the witches and the liars.
My eyes are covered by the hands of my unborn kids,
but my heart keeps watchin'
through the skin of my eyelids.

They say a watched pot won't ever boil,
well I closed my eyes and nothin' changed,
just some water getting hotter in the flames.

It's not a lover I want no more,
and it's not heaven I'm pining for,
but there's some spirit I used to know,
that's been drowned out by the radio!

They say a watched pot won't ever boil,
you can't raise a baby on motor oil,
just like a seed down in the soil
you gotta give it time.

-----

deluge (n.)

c.1374, from O.Fr. deluge (12c.), earlier deluve, from L. diluvium, from diluere "wash away," from dis- "away" -luere, comb. form of lavere "to wash" (see lave). The verb is from 1649.