*Translated from the Greek by ΔT and JC.
Wage-labor capital
and imperialism as the ultimate stage of capitalism
betrayed revolutions
Hey, comrade, we miss you so much . . .
Time is worm-ridden
nuclear tests, popular fronts, brothels
(the Portuguese regime has fallen too)
hyperproductive Catholics and the mafia
have become multinationals, they forbid
love, comrade.
Like dogs on soccer fields
agents climb our stairs
anytime they want they
can yank down our pants and fuck us
peace and harmony and socialism in one country—
but comrade, if you only knew the heavy loads we’re carrying . . .
No one could endure the Moscow trials
you were left all alone
people grew weary, that’s when they were pounced on.
But you already knew this.
And so they’d fink. But you already knew this.
January 1977 in China they butchered workers
the news arrives like a poem by Mao
(with blame placed yet again on the dead), but hey, comrade
why weren’t you more careful?
It’s the same over here. People hide out.
Two Communist Parties and thousands of androgynous “revolutionaries.”
If you’re a little too loose you just switch sides.
Don’t worry though. We’ll be alright.
It’s just that sometimes I feel wiped out,
I’ve got no job, I feel like crying
and when I miss you the most
I “scold” you for being careless
I’m not ashamed to cry
and write poems
Comrade, you never betrayed me.
It’s brutal here.
Meeting
Listen, I walk barefoot thru a world
I’m trying to change, leaving
bloody footprints on the ground.
Slowly but surely I run out of energy
and today Tuesday 5 o’clock it’s dark again.
The safety valves in my brain
have loosened, so be it. I feel like I’m eight again
on a boat bound for Tinos Island
and its miracles.
Angle iron, concrete, and cheap blankets
hermetically seal off people with zero
hope who lock themselves in stalls
to weep. I have to deal.
You go over everything you want to say, word
by word, and end up pale
yet determined at the meeting
waiting for the right moment
and you are indeed there, my brother
but you miss your chance—you lose your cool
you hear yourself shout:
Proletarians of the world, unite!
—everyone stares at you like they’re watching
a western, and even though a cowboy never takes
his hat off, you nervously
try to take yours off but you’ve never even
owned a hat and you stare
at your shoes, embarrassed
completely alone
at this general meeting.
But you were right. At least one person was…
