The blood runs, and it sings of stolen things
to listen is the trick, its humming in the buried veins.
The flesh sits, marked with silent whips
and its past stays with it, gagged and subterranean.
We mine it, giving the gifts of rhetoric back
to its owners, not asking for excuses, crawling backwards.
We take the work as is, in fact and fiction;
not how it aspires us to be, with moral wishes.
We are not children, although we patiently read
of the childhood of all things, their concrete patents:
the darkness then recedes, and only then
when the light is followed back to its sources and signposts
– and the shadow is marked as shadow (for though it seems)
not all darkness is shadow, and darkness gleams…
It is the physical labour of thinking – it is not heartless.
We are not inhuman, although we may mock them, smirking
and use our long words simply to see them working
in truth we take humanity (this strengthened noun)
of the hold, the gaze of sibling to sibling, to found
as the heat and source of joy, the darkened world.
We find joy in revolution, in the placing of the joy of things
in the centre, tectonic plates driven by its turning…
The banality of joy of the courts, these admins of pleasure
of the commercial laboratory, is of no matter to us.
We are angels who watch closely the wreckage of history
tears in our eyes, but we smile, because we have hope:
history never falls apart, only people do that
and our goal is not to set them on a perfect track
but to allow them to explode with fire as a firework in the night.
Behind us stretches the vanishing future of work,
(the varied and varying plane of opportunity and chance)
where for a moment we will siblize each other, and dance
losing the property of our minds, and giving it to all.
We work by each other, and for each other, learning
and from out of the past of each other, quietly burning.
This is historical materialism.