wb :

start like this:
fascicle
now forward,
to moscow!
the fads of moustachioed
bound like pages in
a big brown book, berets and black coats
in imitation.

poor brown Stanislaw!
now,
in a ditch in a
                      mug

spit
then,
rot,
mouth of steel, mouth of fog

-- I came to this mud town ere before long
and the harmony of thought,
is equal to the harmony of song)) --

**

but glorious Stanislaw,
we knew him well,
a lass. now gone,
now black like the mud of some last Russian song!
but I came to this town ere before long,

so let me go,
spit!
fog
horse thrust,
i whipped him (he cried, Oh m)
and soon stopped moving and he had stopped moving

pot


fist

left him,

left him there, my raven my lehre
left him for the butterflies and the humming birds
wearing Marx and muddy coats,
he had the body of a clown
so go, fashion figures,
go to! earth now deep,
now shallow, (he is underneath,)
face down