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)