"trotsky" poems
look at you, all naked.
i' m not really in the mood.
hey, stop that! i was talking!
don't try looking cute.
really, let's discuss things!
like, is this serious, or not?
we don't have time, i get it.
couple of days left and you're gone.
you know what? i wanna talk politics.
you don't tempt me, i' m a saint.
i' ll start seeing you as sexist.
i' m a guy, yes, and it's great...
i' ll attack your opinions. that'll show ya!
trotsky was a ****** nianiania!
what? you're angry now? why 's that?
no, don't get angry now! let's cuddle and stuff!
****** them ***** were not enough.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 6:26 PM UTC
Across the ice a baritone
Projects his notes of steel,
A tenor’s harmonizing
Adds that melancholy feel
And the glory of the voices
Flows out through alders bare
And the listeners weep for Russia’s soul
And the tragedy found there.
The tragic melancholy
Found in every Russian heart
Liberated by the sadness
A fine harmony can impart.
Of the monolithic yesterdays,
Those forgotten fields of dead
And that fire within the *****
Which numbs the agony of the head.
Dark stains along the timber wall
Wood fire’s stones make steam
It fills the room with stifling heat
Which sweats the bodies clean.
Red wheals raised on shoulders
Birch branches whip the back
Whilst companion tones of maleness
Speak in vectors women lack.
Red larches in the foothills
Gold lantern light on snow,
The vastness of ancient steppes
Of Central Asia grow.
A viola’s velvet passion
Sighs beneath a cottage door
And the sadness in sensation
Brings grown men to weep once more.
The vastness of the terrain
The hardness of the land,
The bitter cold of northern wind,
Each freezing winter spanned
By Siberia’s lashing gales,
White snow is metres deep
And turquois ice as hard as steel
Beneath which... rivers creep.
Dostoyevsky,Kruschev,
Rasputin and the Tsars,
Great Lenin, Marx and Trotsky
And the swords of Horse Hussars.
Gorbachev the great redeemer,
Poor Yeltsin’s pale white skin
And the ****** found in Stalin's smile
Span the politics of sin.
This great Russian melancholy
Lies deep within the soul
It’s a legacy of yesterday
Of her history's brutal goal.
It’s a product of the suffering
Inherent in the past
Endured by legions of the people
Then dispensed with…
With a laugh!
Marshalg
@theBach
Mangere Bridge
13 April 2009
Jan 27, 2010
Jan 27, 2010 at 10:46 PM UTC
There in the corner resting silently the old wooden bench
reclines beneath the billowing sky. Peeled and pale much
the worst for wear.
"A couple of young fellas down at Kitty Hawk flew like wounded ducks". Did you hear?
That was a humdinger. "Somebody swiped the Mona Lisa right under their noses"
Tick
witness to it all has heard the deepest of dark secrets whether tumbledown in solitude
or passed about in chatter.
"The Titanic went down last week ,What a pity." wasn't that thing impossible to sink"
well I'll see you later The Trolleys are running slow today.
There's this young upstart playing at the picture show this week. Chaplin I think his name is
Moving pictures,oh what will they think of next.
I got a letter from William fighting in The Somme. Dont know when or if he is coming home.
Nights are cold in the rain. Tick
Bathtub gin. A little nip every now and then can't be a sin.
The Lucky Lindy is the latest swing.
Tock.
Mickey mouse meet sliced bread. The birth of a nation
Bring the kids out on Saturday The can play awhile.
Heard That ****** Trotsky got shot. What do you think that will bring
Guess Adolf bit off more than he could Chew cause that big air war in
Britain made him tuck tail.
Tick
The greatest generation has come and is all but gone
The park bench sits and awaits the dawn
past Y 2 K and on and on
till today, this very hour
waiting for another story to tell
like a morning flower at sunrise
Beautiful petals and leaves
No one grieves for the passing of time.
The park bench sighs and
Then reclines.
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 10:00 AM UTC
i want to grow up next door from you
i want to be seven years old with you
i want to put band-aids on your
skinned knees
i want to meet you in a book store
i want to talk about poetry and art and trotsky
i want to buy you a book like i'm
buying you a drink at the bar
i want to sit next to you on the train
i want to make small talk about the weather
i want to lend you my coat and forget
to ask for it back
i want to be a field nurse
if you're a wounded soldier
i want to change your gauze
and sneak you extra meal rations
i want to be a bystander
talking you off the ledge
i want to lead you gently back into the world
i want to be careful with your heart
i want to love you softly and abiding
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 9:49 PM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
Eldoret, Kenya; [email protected]
when i start by name
perhaps in a flap of fault
exculpate my soul
for maximum rectitude
is the true fill of my heart
glory to the sons of Russia
Kudos to you all and your foremen;
Nikolai Gogol the master in the dead souls
Alexander Pushkin the effeminate poet
Vladimir Lenin who knew what was doable
Alexander sholenestysn the Siberian jail bird
who was on the poetic phone by five
Feodor Dostoyevsky the epileptic Karamazov
Maxim Gorky and Antony Chenkoy leave them alone
Ayn Rand the woman who shrug the atlas for we the living
Vladimir Nabokov the school master who asked for ***
from her student the adourous ******
Boris Pasternak the Muzhik like Leo Tolstoy
who wanted land beyond the horizon
for doctor Zhivago the **** peasant
or Vladimir Makayavosky who slapped the public
in the face of their capitalistic taste,
Glorified be you all you sons of Russia
your Muse is beautiful and erotically crazy
glory for your humour and your finer threads
with which you have woven for me my poems of dystopia
glory be to you all in the stark oblivion
of Leon Trotsky and his penman Leonid Brezhnev
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 12:15 PM UTC
I once went to Auschwitz, dove in the shoes.
Saw bunch of mannequins in bomb shelters from the fifties.
the house wives listened to blues.
Saw Vietnam Memorial, passed out, ** Chi Min Got hot in d.c.
Cold War cold cuts were all the news, sewing old men toupees in our weaves.
Walked trenches through Germany in mustard gas rainclouds
Saw, **** between Trotsky and Lenin, before he was a mummy.
Listened to George Bush shake Barrack Obama's hand, we are free now.
Caught world war three on the midnight news tele.
In Shambala Destiny, Chocolate covered rose petals,
From the end of the space shuttles kettle.
Boil over tipping point, all your fighting is over.
The air hangs of hung weird folk.
We can hate everyone, but ourselves.
Each moment in history had some one to hate,
Statist tend to do that to opposing encroaching States.
WE get to own the slaves, the cows of neck tie collars,
Oligarchy of patriarchical, man meat, manipulative, demagogic, isolationist, miscreant, pro-government pseudo-capitalist, state CORPORATION dollars.
Join the army old men. You hold a gun like a limp ****
You gotta hold mine to my head, Cause money ain't doin' Viagra's trick.
I jump from a painting of war veteran spiritualism.
I give no glory to people fighting for my freedom.
I hate violence, no one will ever FIGHT for MY freedom.
I am Freedom.
No state can make me that way.
No gun in my hand will change evil men.
My words must be my gun.
No one will hold my weapon.
Evil is evil, you cannot change its face through plastic surgery, Prozac, religion, or painting any other name on true morals.
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 12:33 AM UTC
i collect stamps
not the mail kind
not the male kind
not the may hill kind
not the mayo ill kind
not the may hue kind
not the maim yew kind
not the mwaya view kind
not the mwayam myeil kind
not the amaway yilovski kind
not the mynsigwi malomisten kind
snot snee smail skind
rot tree trail rind
trotsky braille grind
hot bree hail's tine
kind
kind
kind
kind
kind
kind
kind
kind
kind
kind
kind
kind
kind
mail
mali
alim
liam
ailm
ailm
ailm
Apr 14, 2017
Apr 14, 2017 at 12:13 AM UTC
I dream of living to see the next revolution,
And of the men who will not live through that revolution,
Of the air humming electric static heat in anticipation of the inevitable riot,
Of the holy barricades standing in defiance of Heaven,
Of the enlightened kicking down the doors with guns and masks, asking;
"ARE YOU GONNA BE A PART OF THE PROBLEM OR ARE YOU GONNA BE A PART OF THE SOLUTION?"
Of gallows for the dogs of war,
Of guillotines for the capitalist pigs,
Of a firing squad for every reactionary content to oppose the wheel of history even as it crushes their bones down to nothing,
Of the end which justifies the blood staining the cities red as the hammer and sickle cells that divide and multiply fevered in the streets,
Of the ghosts of iron men long dead still insisting that we take not one step back,
Because men get arrested, animals get put down
And God,
God made them as stubble to our swords, boys
And with blades clenched between their teeth so climb the dregs of the Earth to the surface to taste the apples they shook from the trees,
In 24 hour news cycles the slogans repeat to infinity:
"NOT RESISTING ARREST"
"NOT COMMITTING A CRIME"
"I WAS NOT A THREAT, WHY DID YOU TRY TO **** ME"
You can only force people to paint the smallest target possible on their own backs for so long before you end up in the crosshairs
I have seen the faces of my saints painted on the walls of eternity -
Of Trotsky, million headed proletariat staring daggers through the hearts of the tsars,
Of Cromwell, crusader for the ungovernable force of will,
Of Robespierre, headsman of divine terror riding on the wings of the Angel of Death,
I have seen the end and the means played out in countless dramas across millennia,
And the only question that remains unanswered is this:
Are you gonna be a part of the problem or are you gonna be a part of the solution?
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 12:30 AM UTC
Hey, Leon
Let's go outside and play\
No, Ramon
It's too cold outside
We'll freeze\
Don't worry, Leon
I've got my ice pick!
:)
r 7Jan14
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 3:33 PM UTC
Saturday
shop busy
you with Dylan Thomas’s
Deaths & Entrances
poetry book
tucked in
your inside pocket
of your brown jacket
Miss Croft
Saturday girl
dark hair
ponytailed
swaying
her tight ***
in her short skirt
up and down
the shop aisle
Duff the manager
bespectacled
with curly mass
of dark hair
standing there
cigarette in mouth
conversing
with a customer and wife
about which paint
went best
with what wallpaper
giving the dame
the eye
giving the charm
you tanked up
(you worked better
that way)
with some old couple
wanting curtains
to match
the wallpaper choice
the blue flowers
the pattern
the old guy gazing
at the Croft girl
the way
she wiggled her ***
her la-de-da tones
her bright eyed
expression
then she talked
to friends from college
more friends
than Trotsky
had enemies
standing there
hands on hips
tight tee shirt
small ****
and can you order this
in a light blue
the old dame asked
the blue here’s
too dark
the old guy nodded
his head turned
eyes on his wife’s
profile
sure sure
you said
controlling the slur
the beer taking hold
the old dame
seemed pleased
her husband gave
the Croft girl
another secret gaze
her tight *** moving
side to side
as she walked
the aisle
her friends departed
you watched her
with her bourgeoisie
life and ways
her small tight body
wrapped
like a dream
and the sale complete
the old couple
went away
through the business
of wallpaper
and paint
all of a Saturday.
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 3:21 PM UTC
Let's talk poppies and candies,
Let's talk summer frocks and bees,
Let's talk blue skies ending
In crystal blue seas.
Sure let's talk the neighbors,
Sure let's talk cooking books,
Sure let's talk red lipstick
And guys' good looks!
We're gonna talk Elvis and Marilyn
And Trotsky and Tolstoy,
We're gonna talk Eastern countries
We're about to destroy.
And Italian movies and French perfumes,
Marijuana and milkshake,
Bobby socks and jukebox,
And vacations by the lake.
Let's talk, my dearest pal
All of the above,
But I'd say, first of all,
Let's not talk love.
Jun 12, 2018
Jun 12, 2018 at 6:05 PM UTC
my stomach is in knots
sour and burning
your third eye is bleeding
my stomach ulcer just exploded and created a galaxy
if you want to eat fruit
you need to watch the seeds, carefully
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 1:14 AM UTC
What’s a big bowl
But a midget’s boat
And what is peace
To a Jamnapari goat
Everything is relative
Said Leon Trotsky
But he was a raging communist
So he can rot in hell-ski
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 6:55 AM UTC
I saw David Johansen's straight boy drag queen heart bleeding for the state of being he left the scene in - the euphemisms weighing down the airwaves like bricks chained to the ankles of those selfless enough to take the plunge, the chaos of energy turned to profit margin and the makeup all cried off as the lights go out over the once holy cities
Richey Edwards' truth was carved to his flesh in no uncertain terms - this is real and this is happening and you are just as responsible for it as I am, the Prime Ministers guilty and the preachers guilty and the divine street youth guilty and that guilt was all he had to pack in his suitcase when he left them all behind forever,
They all watched Iggy bleeding from the nose on the pavement in the rain and they all walked away because they had their own **** to deal with and I'd be lying if I said I wouldn't have done the same,
The fight is not yet over, Trotsky closed his eyes believing the fight was not yet over but he never could've imagined how right he was, and the walls of the mausoleum called to me in my acid flashback dreams:
This is the gospel of collapsed veins and broken synapse - the Rapture clocked in at 0 Revolutions per minute and the message scribbled down from whatever could be picked out of the static
Take what you need from this place and go,
If you burn bright enough they will one day count your shattered visage among these lost martyrs -
But that's a fate I wouldn't wish on anyone
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 3:28 AM UTC
The picket line stakes moral choice,
To raise and bring to life our voice,
To October! Fate sublime for mass,
Bread and peace for child and lass,
McWorkers tyranny abhor,
Know not cynicism of legal clause
That hath for age us with boss in war,
Like Trotskys reds we are folk uproar,
See how we clap for Trotsky's song,
Rings around the Earth, along.
They want them working twice as fast for half the pay,
So we fight twice as hard all night and day,
Could I have the words suffice to say,
The exquisite logic of the workers way,
Solidarity, love and peace,
Mental struggle duly cease,
Raising thoughts of care to pains release,
Painting up the town in raw cerise,
Ours to claim, a freedom true,
Revolution dwells in you.
Sep 1, 2017
Sep 1, 2017 at 6:52 PM UTC
Long live labour, for she is just
Her truest servants for public triumph lust,
In common solidarity,
International confraternity,
Marx saw arrow of eternity,
Vindicate workers history,
In pure and sublime destiny,
When ruse no longer mystery,
We rise up, vanquish calumny.
Verse of 1917 a rapture,
Harbor we a love of life and all its creatures,
Considering the workers to be teachers,
Marx, the most exquisite of their preachers,
Saw all workers hearts as twins,
Not stratified by cash for sins,
Alas for freedom all not sunny,
World captive runs with blood to march of money.
Arise ye children from your mistake,
Like wealth through which the devil spake,
But off our ******* like feathers shake,
Revolution as ears strive awake,
Our laugh to have and eat our cake,
Cake for all, not just Versailles,
A voluptuous but tortured mile.
Reds rancorous, with passion riled,
Solidarity can't be defiled,
By radical community beguiled,
Communism waking to go wild,
The devil lost at cosmic blackjack,
Thought Trotsky, peasant, didn't have the knack,
But we have dealt red lucky flush,
And vindication through us rush,
Victory tasted sweetest lush,
Devil's wits do lack.
Feb 28, 2018
Feb 28, 2018 at 12:22 PM UTC
"I think if this country gets any kinder or gentler,
it’s literally going to cease to exist."
Trump chatting it up with
******* gave us that sweet
gem of philosophical &
political wisdom,
Oh kindness ..
that communist conspiracy
cooked up by that bearded longhair
Leon Trotsky & close to a bacillus
that threatens the goodness
of the nation & thus simply
treating each other nicely
becomes the equivalent
of Red Guard fanaticism,
as if niceness was a Leninist
conspiracy & looking out for
strangers was an underhand
ruse & the first station on the
way to the Siberian Gulag
& children informing on
their mama & papa,
as if gentleness was a sin
close to ****** & a defect
solved by drastic measures
somewhat akin to re-education
camps in the steamy jungle
morning,
as if looking out for one
another came with a
guaranteed negative
for the giver & thus
wasn't at all a good
deal & heck isn't a
thing I'd sign off
on thats for ****
sure,
as if brotherly love & simple
common solidarity in the
face of life's trials & harsh
tribulations was anathema
to the 'real' man who sure
as heck won't give an inch
if he thinks the other dudes
gettin' one over on him,
as if compassion was an
elitist liberal virtue & caring
for one another was mirrored
by the Manson Family & sure
by golly gee we're not taking
that road you must be kidding
seriously now,
as if love was not a Christian virtue
& as if trust revealed you as a
taken rube & as if letting your
guard down & giving a ****
meant Satan had taken hold
in your heart & you were now
a direct threat to all we hold
near & dear & sacred.
Just be nice ...
Its not so much to ask.
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 11:05 PM UTC
Hamlet missed his chance
Antigone would've ousted Creon quicker given the stance
Had Lenin the foresight he'd have placed his bets on Trotsky
What options does that leave me?
you can know you're not them
The voices in my head speak softly as the man I want dead paints what it would cost me
To exact revenge
Make his world end
And mine, its a fine line to debate on crossing
You could let it go
I'm blameless here, no?
He's the one who sold his soul
He landed a hit, but he better have another punch to throw.
Swing at me!
I promise you I won't go gently
You can forget it
What would the wise say?
If you turn away there's a price to pay
An eye for an eye and
a lie for a lie
This cuckold better say goodbye
You can forgive
Do you think Montresor has any regrets?
There was no tell-tale heart beating when he laid himself rest.
Was he satisfied?
I know what I'm doing
I'm passing this test
The wise can watch his demise
Game
Set
*Fine, you've made up your mind, enjoy your story being lost in time.
Enjoy your rhyme or reason for convincing only yourself this man is guilty of treason.
You're going to take a part of yourself with this, you've let your temper grow.*
Hey, where'd you go?
Sep 4, 2018
Sep 4, 2018 at 7:17 PM UTC
“No doubt they’ll sing in tune after the revolution.”
-Kamarovsky in Doctor Zhivago (film)
Kerenskys marshaled in two ordered lines
Unsure exactly how to stand, to pose
Merry banter, backpats, handshakes, and smiles
A show, a glow of Party unity
And then – a hiss, a strike, a spit, a spat
In sixty-second bursts atop the tomb
Comrade against comrade, a free for none
The audience applauds the ****** fun
Who is the Trotsky, and who the Stalin, then;
Who will die in exile, and who will win?
Jun 29, 2019
Jun 29, 2019 at 4:04 PM UTC
I suppose I should say
It’s 5:30 on a summer day
The temperature is 82 but it still feels nice
When José Martí chose to return to Cuba did he know he would die?
Certainly not, but he knew that he might
It almost certainly crossed his mind
But still he returned to die on horseback forever immortalized in New York statues and mediocre poems
I feel I’m ok without that level of courage
I feel I’m ok with where I’m at right now as long as I’m aware that some day I’ll be moving forward
No sense in rushing in to free fall leaps of faith
They don’t often tell you this, but in order to be a martyr someone has to see your life as important
And don’t take that the wrong way
But I don’t see anyone raising any statues if I died
The students from May ‘68 look back upon the events, 50 years later, and claim they never expected it to become a revolution
And they were right, because it didn’t
Oh what fiery idealism drove them
“The Communist Party saw the Workers for who they were”
The interviewee states
“The students saw them as what they should be”
And in my eyes there lies the fatal trap
To hold any earthly thing as sacred is to build upon a foundation of ice
When things get hot ice tends to melt
When Nestor Makhno fled to Paris did he feel that he would ever return to Ukraine?
It had happened before in February 1917 when he was released from prison, but certainly he must of knew his anarchist revolution was over
I look at the pages of how the Makhnovists said this and Trotsky said this and I’m much too tired to take sides
Makhno, Trotsky, Lenin are all dead now and the wheels around us keep turning
There’s no use dwelling on the past when the future creeps up a second at a time
I could end here on an optimistic note
And say something about the strength of the human spirit or the power of us working together or something you have heard a million times before
So instead I’ll leave you with this
It’s 5:47 on a summer day
It’s 82 degrees, but it still feels nice
Jun 3, 2018
Jun 3, 2018 at 5:48 PM UTC
"I remember Coyoacan," Jay told the interviewer,
sitting under mahogany-and-cane fan blades on the veranda.
Leaning back, legs crossed,
He smiled easily and added,
"He didn't believe in me, Trotsky. Too bad.
"The palms were dripping that day, but the rain had let up.
Mercader set his raincoat on the table
with the ice axe under it.
Trotsky was reading.
When he looked down, Mercader withdrew his weapon,
swung and sculpted a new Winter into Trotsky's mind."
Jay shrugged, as if to say what can you do?
"The guards rushed in and beat that man like a pinata.
Each fist was an eloquent argument,
each kick a blow for the worker."
He waved His hand dismissively.
"It was too late of course. Mexico is devout, but unforgiving.
"Trotsky knew he was dying, and said so.
An aide brought a basin for any final ideas,
and someone put on a phonograph record of Russian dances.
Across the room, Trotsky could see where Death had scrawled
'Te veo pronto'
on the mirror above the sink in red lipstick.
"He never asked for me, and died the next day."
The interviewer followed Jay's gaze to the flower garden--
dahlias, the Mexican national bloom.
"The Aztecs used to eat them," he told the interviewer.
The scribe wrote this down on his pad from the hotel,
with "Bienvenida a Coyoacan"
in bold script across the top like a leaflet or a prayer card.
Aug 3, 2025
Aug 3, 2025 at 4:13 PM UTC
as the house of cards comes down…
if you can’t see that all the money in this country
is stored in the stingers of a small hive of queen bees
you’re not paying attention
quote me all the smug hard-hearted factoids
you can scrape off the radio
brand me tax-for-the-greater-good criminally naive
you might have a point, maybe there is no greater good
if it involves you and me together
i don’t know what i’d do to spread the gravy
resurrect leon trotsky?
but if you don’t think the rich have too much money
you’re a sucker
Sep 29, 2018
Sep 29, 2018 at 11:52 AM UTC