Red revolutionary motivational poetry red
My life line has a closed circuit
in the head of the nine diamonds,
translucent roses on my head—break;
I shall sing though the itching-ache in the
blue current between my knowledge
and your wisdom: between the stones;
between the oceans; betwixt the
necropolis of indulgence
and the seventh house of heaven.
In your innermost heart there is
Oxygen and Fire,
Light and Color,
Broken Glass and Wilting Flowers,
How did I find it?
I swear I saw it
under the dust
in the chest
wrapped around your bountiful breasts
How did I loose it?
I swear I always keep it on me
I thought it was in my jeans
Maybe I left it in my teens?
I hope I can find it
in your throat
on your lips
beside your stomach
beating in your round rippling ribcage
It doesn’t appear anywhere,
but maybe I’m not looking hard enough.
Maybe I should strain more.
Maybe I should feel more pain.
Thinking there’s a volcano in your heart will cheer me up,
assured—life burns like little witch children to my 14th century heart,
o where is it? o where is it?
Would you help me find it?
It’s about 7 inches long, white and pinkish at the top.
Essential I, that is,
1) the red box and it’s content,
2) the yellow box and it’s content,
3) the blue box and it’s content,
4) the green box and it’s content,
shall hereafter be refered to as
that black box formerly known as
I keep secrets from myself in the
black box formerly known as Me.
I keep desires in there too.
And to-do lists.
I know the colors mean something.
When I opened the black box formerly
known as me, I became a dead moth.
Amoung the scraps of paper,
scrolls and parchment,
amoung the body bags,
sceletons and severed heads,
I left a note,
3 1/2 pints of kerosene,
and a lit match.
I’ll keep my pockets with me.
In my head
there’s this island on the sun
where everything good goes to get eaten up by flames.
It would be a very pleasant place: the breezes are cool,
the water light and cerulean,
Then A big Cloud came and the rain was this black tar.
Viciously worrisome, Relentless tar.
In my head,
there’s this island where the sun
Is cool and cerulean and clear and bright, but then
Tough realistic men with muscles the size of 747’s smoke cigarettes and riddle
corpses with their own ashes upon which they wrote
the law of the universe for me, how kind:
I’m going to Tobago next summer so I can rub it in their faces.
I thought I was a man,
so I took my final breath and
I forced myself to die.
Two beasts like rusty locomotives
lapped up my milk.
Home walked me though strange places, and though I was
I felt secure, like a turtle, or a lemon on the table with little
pore-like eyes that gaze at greedy fingers with knives.
Persuasion’s not my strong suit. I have
Nine cat’s eyes for the death of a salesman,
some deem that makes me an octopus;
however, I’ve always been such a
A scorpion in the mind of the Ourobos, perhaps.
I bit my tail and felt my own sting once.
I fingered my asshole too.
Tasted my own stick.
Did it stink.
But like the cat’s eyes I saw everything and had no choice.
I forced myself to die. I pissed my pants and sat in my own fowlness.
Persuasion doesn’t suit me.
I’d rather insist, but how firm can I be without affirmation?
How steady can I be without transformation?
How can I liberate, not, myself, being liberated?
Alas, I’m a toothbrush in a cup that once polished boots.
Alas, I’m the anchor that broke tied to the womb of the sea.
Alas, I’m a prisoner with his head stuck in the bars.
Persuasion just won’t work for me.
I’ve really got to breathe life.
Of late, the Social-Democratic philistine has once more been filled with wholesome terror at the words: Dictatorship of the Proletariat. Well and good, gentlemen, do you want to know what this dictatorship looks like? Look at the Paris Commune. That was the Dictatorship of the Proletariat.
—Frederick Engels, Introduction to Marx’s The Civil War in France, March 18 (via fuckyeahmarxismleninism)