The late revolution

Thought I was romantic. And well-read. And addicted
to what feel-goods any man held in his holster.
Cities, huh, humming to read aloud their own twitches
a poor man, one of many boys but brother to his cracked
mirror palm-sized he smooched on when him young boy swooned;
and when older and tainting his own thoughts of being did;
he thought what a young Lord that, a Tsar to his face he
brought a brow to, a mouth to, and the two eyeballs him
in his science said was the same face as Lenin
humid in sweat, as able to wilt for my simple back
I never thought he could count the ripples of, or
give his body for, humming a tune my ears perked at,
said what the toll of his muscles was my very own body.


~ by Jeremy on June 17, 2012.

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