(a show in verse)

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.