"Pure squares of Mexican sky ease my exile; reviewing my post-dated Pravda like a parishioner fallen from St. Peter's gilded grace, the dome of Rome and NVD network that kept my clockwork ideologies 5 alert and au courant, I watch my clear marguerita evaporate in its harsh dawn of salt. My eyes feel blooded in their stark haloes of grey hair. I grow old, I grow old, the Party moults me in the general slough.... I'm sent here among the cacti for my pasturage, 10 a missionary without a church or holy relic beneath my skirt! Lenin's parboiled skull would make a nice knick-knack; thumbing my wry digits between his teeth for a tongue, I'd make him say: suffering is salvation, for the mass... I stagger from my white beachchair sober and appalled, 15 Stalin with his ice-cream suit and dictatorial lunge scattering the pieces...! I read in bad prose of how he'll mechanize the Worker's Paradise, assembly-lining cool cubes of sweatless swimming pools, rototilling sweet compassion under, the hard clasped hand,--- 20 Communism's true gen. The horizon's sere with unswallowed bile, baked brown. I falter; at my turned back a brother communist, Juan Love, undoes my brain with a pick or shovel."
From the collection "Contemporaries"
Written by Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]
More information available on gregglory.com.