Three poems by Luke Roe



To manufacture a complacency unknown
To all but those who live beneath it
To leave tire tread on the skin of the vulnerable and the masses
For they are ‘All so many cogs and conveyor belts; they do not matter.
They are all so many sheep and diggers of ditches; they have no name.’
So much smoke and blood has stolen their faces
And so few will be remembered save for the ones who spoke a word
To let go a birth for their hidden world
And the emancipation thereof
We witness their disgust all so little
But when we do, and when we rise and resist
All that is heard in the end is but a pin dropping onto the floor,
A winter wind moving on that quiets all with its touch
And all too many yawning “Awwwee”
When more promises are once again made
For our sighs

VI Lenin, 1917

The Communist Manifesto
Floats in my heart’s chambers
The image of Marx unclear through the fluids
Belly full of too much liquor
The words begin to spin
Like some mad candelabra
And manifests itself
As the dried vomit on my shoes


Oh Comrade Frank,
We here are growing tired
We are dragging our feet amidst the skin of
Those who have fallen
and won’t stand again
We are tired of playing house in a world
Of no walls
While socialism lies comatose on its deathbed
We are tired of chemical showers of rain
And exploitation’s bitter odor
We are tired of hearing that capitalism
Is a double edged sword
When it is the crooked side that is the sharpest
We are tired of this economic cannibalism
That has tied us down
Taken our homes
As well as our voice
Our health
Our rights
And our happiness
While wealth is concentrated in fewer and fewer hands
And the mouths of the very rich shout “Bolsheviki!”
When we have had enough oligarchic poison
In our soup
And lament these injustices
When we feel our voices will soon give out
Fracturing like paint in some suburban night terror
These days when we are lucky
We catch a whiff of revolution in the wind
A euphoria simmering while it steams
And we feel the fire caged within us
Fertilizing the seeds of class consciousness
In the proletarian mind
Burning burning
An eternal
And ever scalding flame



About the author:

My name is Luke Roe and I have lived in Spokane, Washington, US for the
duration of my twenty one years being human. I have a son, Elijah, who
holds a microcosm in his belly. I am a member of the Industrial Workers of
the World and have anarcho-syndicalist tendencies. My poetry has been
featured in RiverLit, POV, Kerouac’s Dog, Haiku Journal, 50 Haikus, Zouch
and others. I recently founded a literature and arts zine called “The
Dissident” centered around, as you may have imagined, dissonance.


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