Thursday, February 23, 2012

Hero of Socialist Labour

Parabolas of light know consequences,
In confidence across the sky to impact,
Where the flowers grow in dusty scrub,
And children covet mass production,
Of little thought and fewer principles,
Here at home we are icons of free will,
Proudly manufactured, stoutly utilised,
To defend the borders of the Motherland.

You couldn’t hit a tank at twenty feet,
Fire instead would scatter, uncontrolled,
The hollow points and makeshift rounds,
Into the crowds, to split on concrete,
To spit at mufti and military alike,
Perpetually defining you as radical,
And other weasel words for angry child,
Joyful until death in games of soldiers.

Mikhail reports he sleeps unburdened,
Not once plagued by sweats and terrors,
Called up by visions of countless children,
Disassembled nightly in his dreams,
Oiled and cleaned then put together,
Shouldered casually in cafes everywhere,
The tiny, mighty gods of conflicts,
These Juju offerings for safety.

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