Red Fist



These are the grey poets

Of machine hell.

The squalid prophets

Of beaten humanity.

Reformists who promise

To turn the shit of mass production economy

Into a bed of roses.

Their uniform is the pink straitjacket

Of ideological correctness,

Their ideology

Is the limp prick

Of Stalinists terrorism,

Of anonymous denunciation

Of hatred, envy

And a knife in the back.

They fight state tyranny

By shouting stale slogans

At the police

From a safe distance

Across the street.

Their war is a war of words.

Their small-arms are their mouths

And their heavy weapons armchair mounted.

They are the enemies of freedom, joy and love

Capitalism‘s shock troopers in the Class War

They talk one hell of a revolution

As if Socialism was a dialect.


Solfed we are on to you. The crew at Internationaltimes, as has always been our policy, guarantee, the anonymity of any correspondent who brings us evidence of intimidation by this or any other self-proclaimed Socialist group. We shall overcome.


Mike Lesser

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