In a loud voice. (The first entry into the poem)

Dear
comrades descendants!
Rummage
in today's
petrified g ...,
our days studying the dark,
you,
perhaps,
ask about me also.
And, probably, he will say
your scientist,
cut by erudition
questions swarm,
that he lived such a de
singer boiled
and an ardent enemy of raw water.
Professor,
take off your sunglasses-bike!
I'll tell you myself
about the time
and about myself.
I, the sewer
and a water carrier,
revolution
mobilized and called,
went to the front
from masterly gardening
poetry -
women capricious.
Planted the garden cute,
daughter,
dacha,
water

and the smooth surface

I myself planted a garden,

I will water myself

.

Who pours poetry from the watering can,
who sprinkles,
typing in the mouth -
curly-haired Mithraki,

the wise Kudreyki

who will take them to hell!
There is no quarantine for a breakthrough -
mandolinite from under the walls:
"Tara-tina, tara-tina,

t-en-n ... "

Not a great honor,
that of these roses
my statues rose
on the squares,
where tuberculosis,
where b ... with a bully
yes syphilis.
And me
agitprop
in the teeth of the imposed,
and I would
scribble
romances on you -
more profitable
and more charming.
But I
yourself
humbled,
becoming
at the throat
own song.
Listen,
comrades descendants,
agitator,
throat-ringleader.
Blank
poetry flows,
I will step
through lyrical volumes,
as alive
with living speaking.
I will come to you
into the communist far
not this way,
as a song-etenenny protyaz.
My verse will come
through the ridges of centuries
and through the head
poets and governments.
My verse will come,
but it will not go well, -
not like an arrow
in the amorous-lyre hunting,
not as it comes

to the numismatist

grubby

and not as the light of the dead stars comes.
My verse
labor
a lot of years will break
and will
weighty,
rough,
visibly,
as in our days
water pipe,
worked-up
still slaves of Rome.
In the mounds of books,
buried the verse,
pieces of iron randomly detecting,
you
with respect
feel them,
as old,
but a formidable weapon.
I
an ear
in a word
I'm not used to caressing;
the lapdog
in the curls of the hair
with a half-dope
do not split the throne.
By opening the
my pages are troops,
I am walking through
according to the rowline front.
Poems are
lead-hard,
ready and to death
and to immortal glory.
The poems froze,
to the muzzle
aimed at
gaping titles.
Weapons
favorite
genus,
finished
jerk in the boom,
froze
cavalry witticisms,
raising rhyme
honed peaks.
And all
over the teeth of the armed forces,
that twenty years in victories
flew by,
to the very
last leaflet
I give to you,
planet is a proletarian.
Worker
the masses of the enemy class -
he is my enemy and mine,
notorious and old.
They told us to
go
under the red flag
years of labor
and days of malnutrition.
We opened
Marx
each volume,
as in the house
own
we open the shutters,
but without reading
we understood that,
in which to go,
in which to fight the camp.
we
dialectics
they did not teach according to Hegel.
Sneaking fights
she broke into the verse,
when
under bullets
from us the bourgeois ran,
like us
once upon a time
ran from them.
Let it be
for geniuses
inconsolable widow
glory is flowing
in the funeral march -
die, my verse,
die like a private soldier,
as nameless
our assaults were on the storm!
I do not care
on the bronzes of polypous,
I do not care
on the marble mucus.
We will be counted with glory -
because we are our own people, -
let us
common monument will
built
in battles
socialism.
Descendants,
check the floats:

Disclaimer: I just found these in my library. I do not have the rights to them,
I just them and decided to share them with you.