the moving space of the revolution
you think you’re Nekrasov or something, bitch?
war machines all along the roadside
the functionary of the whip
took a taste
little dialogues going on in a black bar
conspirators sleep
in butovo, golianovo, khimki
halted by knowledge
bought on sale
but my beloved isn’t sleeping
what will you do
but my lover isn’t sleeping
what should I tell him
a boy in a freshly bought che guevara t-shirt
thrashing about incoherently in a jail cell
in his face you can see a beast, a bear,
pieces of a wolf, a machine gun report
the hallways of our houses are covered with slime
livelihood leaves no space for life
and no strength to choose death
so they choose struggle
washing the bodies of the dead with the red nightmare
buying your son a toy out of inertia
hinting at war
but my beloved isn’t…