/lit/ - Literature

>>13101776
Just in case, that's Mayakovskiy, not me. But yeah, this is in general some of the best love poems I've ever read, partially due to it coming from like the manliest chad thundercock in town. It's a really nice blend of hardness and healthy emotionality. Here's a fucking astonishing love poem from him:
https://russianfuturists.wordpress.com/2017/02/12/vladimir-mayakovsky-a-cloud-in-trousers-english/
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_Cloud_in_Trousers
[...]
You think I’m delirious with malaria?

This happened.
In Odessa, this happened.

“I’ll come at four,” promised Maria.

Eight…
Nine…
Ten.

Soon after,
The evening,
Frowning,
And Decemberish,

Left the windows
And vanished in dire darkness.

Behind me, I hear the neighing and laughter
Of candelabras.

You wouldn’t recognize me if you knew me prior:
A bulk of sinews
Moaning,
Fidgeting.
What can such a clod desire?
But a clod desires many things.

Because for oneself it doesn’t matter
Whether you’re cast of copper
Or whether the heart is cold metal.
At night, you want to wrap your clamor
In something feminine,
Gentle.

And thus,
Enormous,
I hunch in the frame,
And with my forehead, I melt the window glass.
Will this love be tremendous or lame?
Will it sustain or pass?
A big one wouldn’t fit a body like this:
It must be a little love, — a baby, sort of,
It shies away when the cars honk and hiss,
But adores the bells on the horse-tram.
I come face to face
With the rippling rain,
Yet once more,
And wait
Splashed by the city surf’s thundering roar.

Running amok with a knife outside,
The night caught up to him
And stabbed him,
Unseen.

The stroke of midnight
Fell like a head from a guillotine.

The silver raindrops on the windowpane
Were piling a grimace
And yelling.
It was as if the gargoyles of Notre Dame
Started yelping.

Damn you!
Haven’t you had enough yet?
Cries will soon cut my throat all around.

I heard:
Softly,
Like a patient out of his bed,
A nerve leapt
Down.
At first,
He barely moved.
Then, apprehensive
And distinct,
He started prancing.
And now, he and another two,
Darted about, step-dancing.

On the ground floor, the plaster was falling fast.
[...]