Note: I was going to “celebrate” Marxmas by posting an article wherein I shit on Marxism & it’s stupid “Dictatorship of the Proletariat” bullshit, ’cause, as predicted, 2015 was a bad year, & that’s what you do on years without a warm future. But I’m sick to death o’ politics (& don’t have the time to revise it to coherency), so enjoy this superior, relaxing sonnet ‘stead.
I can feel your yellow heart
piping spice in frozen nights,
where your sturdy metal starts
bending in such smoke so tight,
snuggled up with razor noise,
which is where the fireworks bloom,
showing off your rusty toys,
like your gurgling cauldron plume.
Though I rest in cotton caves,
your gears’ll never wane,
even when I’m in my grave.