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
                                                                             the 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-luciper-mime turns on the flame in the nozzles.
I’m in a space suit, I’m saying good-bye — let’s get going — I crawl
                                                                                                               into my brain.

Half of hell runs up to watch the start.

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
                                                                             the 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-luciper-mime turns on the flame in the nozzles.
I’m in a space suit, I’m saying good-bye — let’s get going — I crawl
                                                                                                               into my brain.

Half of hell runs up to watch the start.