a socialist revolution set to this tune



A boy satisfies the impulse to kiss that girl from the corner shop on the fullness of her forehead after their first time in her parent’s flat as the adults plan meet in town halls, police stations and university classrooms, and plan how to do things properly for the country’s future. His older brother will take him to a meeting today, and his twin will show him how to take apart and clean a kalashnikov. The pair can think of nothing they fear or desire more than fighting together. But the fighting is now over and their city needs the deeper ardor of peace.

When he was with the girl it was like the dove of the holy ghost descending upon him. The church where his mother was baptised by newly arrived immigrant parents was long abandoned and then bought by property developers who turned it into a vacant site for hipster maker faires and craft markets. Now like the tax collectors in the Temple all the real estate agents, business men, mafia and corrupt police would be turned away.

If they grew up and had children together, he imagined that he would hold his daughter up at dawn in the cold city air in front of the municipal library where the corner shop once was, accepting what austere blessings the sky could provide. Then his child’s grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and godparents would attend formal Baptism in that church reconsecrated, and the sunlight would refract through the pollution in the atmosphere and early november cloud cover onto the pews and illuminating the font as the priest said the rites, and christened her : Charity.

Below the pair, still beatific as they will be for a week hence, the revolution continues.

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