agitprop for trotsky

in the teapot lull
between 1 and 3
my knuckles are blue
my language is null

if i were to open my skull
let the boredom touch the
haze fogging up my door
drawing circles for other languages
to explore

if i were oppressed i would fume
and write a little pamphlet
to hang on dreams, to escape
my head at this hour
to run to fathoms
of every nucleus

and leave burned a message
in every needy fist
to teach them its not hopeless
to dance in the rain
when the washing comes in

to eat breakfast
to cry at the pupils gazing
monstrously back to me
fingering the crevices
pointing to nowhere

even the electric fence
is a wire factory abandoned
a soft sheet without density
a pulse without destiny

and then from the pit
i leave the past abandoned
yet she can open it
like a purse for pennies

a pestillential gust
an idiot wind is blowing
dust from valleys
into the open

no one can see through
the black locust tumour
that does spawn on the hopeless
yet unblinking eye of injury

i would like to pat the puppy
though its abuse is rewarded
to human suffering
stoic highways dont speak
as stardust rests in silence
 and solitude is spawning
refrence points to begin
sometime soon
in a concert hall near you
in the teapot lull between one and 2
between you and me
the dark will last untill 2
light will subside at 3