One always spitting through his beard at crowds.
The other’s cockroach moustache dry pasted
above a smile, not quite so pure or loud,
his small-peaked cap tight as a tourniquet,
face unreadable, each word a bullet
heard too late. If the proletariat’s
not a bureaucracy, who’s this handful
condemning poets, peasants, yesterday’s
heroes? My or his own red army will
sweep the world! What’s Poland but a stuck sword?
Here’s where Capital’s bucket’s drained of blood.
Take your friends, one by one, into the field.
Or give that man an axe in Mexico,
Trotsky’s skull soft as a ripe cantaloupe.
John Allman | Dream
Contents | Mudlark No. 48 (2012)