Author Information
For Real Darkness (Noon? Midnight?) Flecked With Red
Despite all the assurances from Marx---
in his materialistic dialectic---
no comradeships' comforts exist in Hell
In that vast landscape where the surface stone
burns but does not melt, even the most skeptic
exile appears to suffer quite alone.
Neither workers', nor devils', paradise,
its mouth, enlarged, harbors a rough surprise
for those whom, Revolution had deceived
into complaisance , having not believed.
In there, even the very least of sparks
(these propogate new flames) burns even more
hot than a supernova's seething core.
The whole environment completely foils
the Commissariat's Heroic Boasts.
Darkness (is noon? is midnight?) flecked with red
reflects the heat that nothing can dispel.
And all who are condemned there, as accursed,
suffer scorched flesh and, inside, burning thirst
(no desert crossing ever bad as this):
such that even a teacup of old piss
might, for the briefest moment, have relieved
the torment. But none is available.
Here, every human logic limps and falters;
and Lenin cannot rid his bulbous head
of one, fierce, agonizing memory
(the Czar's young son and adolescent daughters
---murdered for Bolshevik expediency;
---martyred, and now with all the company
of saints redeemed, elect unto Salvation).
This was the seal upon Lenin's damnation,
the final tally, the demanding toll:
Lenin, abandoned to full reprobation.
Unknown to Lenin: nearby, Trotsky broils
(and only Trotsky's ears hear Trotsky's screams---
more lasting than the Proletariat's dreams).
Unknown to either one, Assassin Yakov---
spitted (anus to mouth) like some hog---roasts:
a judgment from which he cannot get off.
ENVOI IN DEDICATION;
I hope the few lines of this poem will be a
lyric of metaphor and simile
offered to you in sheer sincerity:
Martyr, and Sister in the Lord---Maria.
Starward
[jlc]
