Revolution Ends At The Rectum

You swipe right and lean left,

while your spine —

at the centre —

lies forgotten.

You speak of geographies

like cardboard boxes —

folded, taped, and labeled

while scrubbing histories clean, 

like chalk from a blackboard

no one cared to read.

You rent your smoke-choked lungs

to scream for Palestine,

while your closeted bigotry

mocks your assumed pronouns in private —

the same pronouns that would get you hanged

in the land you now march for.

You sip imported wine

in crystal glasses

etched with capitalism’s breath,

while deepthroating Marx

in candle-lit conversations

you call liberalism.

You write poetry

for the dead in distant wars

but throw tantrums

when told that art is political —

as if your butt crack

is where the revolution ends.

You, my love,

are no intellectual.

You, my love,

are a whore.

As cheap as they come.

Because when validation

is your only currency,

you are just meat —

pimping out flesh and thought,

brains and bones,

at prices that shift

with cheers and claps.

You forget —

death is universally worthless.

No matter what price

you put on your existence.