#trotsky
Boring old militant Marxist Farts
who blather on, in fits and starts
about class war and revolution
(demonstrably a failed solution)
rather than pitied should be scorned;
their websites tapped, subscribers warned.
Such talk begins as plodding fodder
dull as lead – yet even odder:
people read this wretched dreck!
History ought to hold in check
their pawn-shop plans to topple kings
they talk a good game – till it brings
armed madness, rage, the peasant wars
thugs and riff-raff looting stores,
death-camps, purges, civil chaos
union dues, returned to pay us
****** end to a treacherous story –
guns for butter and guts for glory.
Mao’s red flowers, Trotsky’s pick
Stalin’s bearhug – lies as thick
as honey dripping on a corpse.
Centralized control that warps
a free man’s mind. And yet they find
their audience loaded, pumped and primed.
In spite of numberless essays
the true believer bucks and brays
hee-hawing on, in Maoist jargon,
urging buyers to the bargain:
shining paths – that lead to graveyards
strewn with texts by Marxist blowhards.
Endless screeds by tenured traitors :
dialectic masturbators…
Marxist dullness has its edge.
Boring – yes, but forms a wedge
to split the status quo in factions
gaining time to plan their actions.
Arm in arms; so sad it tickles –
hammering plowshares into sickles
battering bewildered readers
(propagandized bottom-feeders).
Red conjecture never softens
pounded in like nails in coffins,
though their pipe-dreams burn away
when exposed by light of day.
Communist theory rings the blows
to forge the chains. The movement grows.
It’s lengthened, strengthened, link by link
ensnaring those ***** prone to think
they know what’s best for rank and file,
propagandizing all the while.
Agitating Marxist praxis
forms their struggle’s central axis.
Starry-eyed, they sing the anthem
plotting mayhem. Yes – I grant them
zeal, devotion, earnest madness…
but their ends begin in badness.
Brooding hate – their only god,
biding time to shoot their ***
Nip their notions in the bud
before they blossom into blood.
Point them out for what they are:
faceless scribes of future war.
Worst of all: they’re as predictable
as their theories are inflictable.
Gaze into the hole of history
comprehend the tragic mystery…
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 9:32 PM UTC
I see the alliances you form,
how they follow you home,
sit in the corner of your rented room,
smoke curling above last night’s dishes—
touching you, touching your pets
touching your kids.
I see what it costs your flesh.
I spat on the social contract once
struck the match myself.
A familiar smell of aluminium and ash
settling like ****
in a throat that should have known better.
I hear the fragility
echo from two states away
in the choreography of your outrage—
what trends, what fades,
what gets mildly condemned.
You speak of resistance.
You speak of solidarity.
The only resistance I’ve seen
has been to progress—
progress that moved without you,
left you
at the back of the line
while we all whistle casually
on a frenzied ferry to a fiery end—
armband pinches, the furnace groans,
the smoke creeps in your throat
and everyone pretends it’s a breeze.
axes. ash. asterisk.
again. again. again.
the smoke in your lungs now
isn't cigarettes.
Lumumba is losing a country
the West is carving now.
Allende's ballot is burning.
The bombs are falling.
Trotsky's theories are correct
and the ice ax is mid-swing.
The Left always bleeds
so The Right can be
seen as right.
Left, out. Right, in.
Now, you feel
what it means—
to be left out.
Now you see it was never—
just elections,
just politics,
just words—
words matter.
Matter, however, takes up space.
Being “left” was never about
what you chose.
It was always about
who you are.
Feb 19
Feb 19, 2026 at 5:30 PM UTC