Sverdlov / Davis
Slick black shoes
And pince-nez dreams
From way there yon
They killing each other—
Cracked cross the head
All twisted and dropped.
And the searing midnight star
Shows Red the spectacle, too
The throng whooping and heaving
Them down there,
Forging their proper vision,
Until it’s done,
Scapegoats slaughtered
And the piercest howl
Throngs the town ;
Centuries of lust
And into one voice
Who found God
Cowering, sniveling in the hole
And did the Sirte bayonetting
Before the guttural jubilation,
Or the final conflict
A posted sign read
It opens here
When it happens.
So some fled and poured out the doors,
Streaming
Them, in their rags
And caravans
And let the fire fall like limp wrists
To rather see the still pool of stars
And sigh, there’s prattle
And silently, in each head
Already a loss.
A secret, and, yes,
When they got there
(And sine mistook it for a
Real movement)
A note lay,
And it’s shout was ours :
Arrived too soon
To see the birth of the new order
Which really was bought
On credit.