PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

The door to Hell's firebox swings on a one-way hinge; and, apprently,

Christ (whom the poet, Mayakovsky now acknowledges with rueful regret)

constructed it from the substance of a neutron star.  Myakovksy, who had

sung the praises of the now ascendant Red Star, wonders what the hell he is

doing here.  He thinks, "A man without faith ought not be judged by the tenants of

that Faith"; and, if still resident on earth, would call this dictatorship of the

                                                                                                          prelatariat.

He demands to know the charges.  He is told that the sum of them is the

toppling of that monument (you know, Sergei Alexandrovich's), jerked from its

plinth by many ropes pulled by many hands, the poet's, and Comrade Lenin's,

                                                                                                                 included.

Starward

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