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34 ✦ vladimir mayakovsky Morning The gloomy rain squinted its eyes. Behind the array of clear steel cable thoughts, a featherbed. And on it lightly rest the feet of rising stars. But the dying streetlamps, tsars in crowns of gas, only made the eye hurt more to see the bickering bouquet of boulevard prostitutes. The frightful, biting laughter of jokes rises up from toxic yellow roses in a zigzag. Past the din and horror the eye is glad to look: the slave on his crossroads, suffering-calm-indifferent, and the coffins of brothels cast by the east into one flaming vase. 1912 the early years ✦ 35 ...

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