From GENESIS OF THE FLYING HEAD
(a show in verse)
I. METRO FANTASY
Color is still not space you try anyway to hew through
this black night facets of light sparkle and a double
sits in the pane opposite the painted doll faded
a rapid line of movement saws his neck
an underground river dried up dinosaurs crammed together in the night
tusks bones broken mirrors voices of apparitions—
this is all the setting for a painting your neck is bleeding
and your head in the pane starts up and your head
through the thickness of a stone sea through a Dnipro River fish and block of ice
through library stacks burning a path for itself
a minute flies solemnly to a carnival explosion
its lips move with exertion: I-am-a-fly-ing-head
III. METRO FANTASY
This is a body a murder a specter a hook
this clown takes skulls
cicero’anderthal shakespeare adolph chaplin
joseph skovoroda
peopleraven Christ ’umanobeast bug
boar-fanged-night
an even narrower tunnel draft
the black ash of faces
shadows painfully wail
a piercing moment
monsters mongrels ghosts
they howl through you in a flock
and they try on your body
like an old boot you squeak
V. METRO FANTASY. REFLECTIONS
He sees himself before himself
he sees himself transparent
he sees a transparent colored shadow
a moving shadow in the air
it utters words and all at once goes silent it utters words
he takes a step it comes to meet him
face to face eyes
overlap pass through
a mirror of glass thickens
raise my eyelids
THERE HE IS
my shadow in me
bat wings grow
fangs and fingers grow
shadow grows through the body
the stinger sniffs out blood
VIII. THE FLYING HEAD. A PRODUCTION SELF-PORTRAIT
. . . They assemble the flying head in my likeness
in a mine.
A brigade of vampires in overalls with banging carry
a nine-foot nose.
In the nostrils—fireworks, and wires, and paper streamers
two loud talkers gape downward.
My nose is massive, an ordinary one, a monumental
nose—not for assorted nobility!
Into the three-story carcass a control center
is lowered with a crane,
and the brain is transformed into levers, pedals, and a steering wheel. My forehead—stuffed aluminum—welded by metal specialists,
will be moved down a bit below—
there they fit my eyelids and connect
he juice for the TV screen eyes.
A few more words about the mouth—some dozens of devils push
the jaw-bone,
a snail-giant crawled into it, a boastful liar,
his ‘cellency’s tongue,
the teeth stand guard, no fillings whatsoever,
tongue like a sleeping bull,
two anacondas pressed together hide it,
to keep from getting into trouble.
Here they fit the ears, glue on the skin,
weld the joints—a roar and unbearable heat.
The engineer-lucifer-mime turns on the flame in the nozzles.
I’m in a space suit, I’m saying goodbye—let’s get going—I crawl
my brain.
Half of hell runs up to watch the start.
X.
It rises up like a head,
the lopped-off head of a vagrant.
It utters words from the beyond
once, twice, and for the third time:
I AM THE FLYING HEAD!
The all-seeing flying Baroque
hangs above the city square’s horde.
Blood clots drip in the air, the torn cut
casts a deep and heavy shadow:
I AM THE FLYING HEAD!
An invisible ax has entered the city,
headless bodies are thrown from the scaffold,
gawkers have drunken their fill of cheap blood,
and will scrape off the rusty smudge from the forehead
A GHOST—THE FLYING HEAD!
Are you devouring TV soaps?
You gaze at dragons behind the glass!
The wrecking ball from Fellini’s Orchestra [1]
has come to life and breaks through your wall—
I AM THE FLYING HEAD!
Remember, you can’t hide anywhere!
The square is coming to the hiding places, the square!
The feast rinses the dark cobblestones
and moves to the heavens of the Renaissance
A MASK—THE FLYING HEAD!
I AM THE FLYING HEAD!
I AM THE HE AD FLY
ING HE AD I
INGHEA I AM
AYO AY O
NOTES
[1] The wrecking ball that breaks through the walls in Fellini’s Orchestra Rehearsal (1978). (Translator’s note)
Translated by Michael M. Naydan