Analysing Lenin’s brain 

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Sliced deftly as prosciutto
at the Ritz, these slivers may hold genius
but I feel only sweat, blood pounding

in my temples. I have clear orders
from the Immortalisation Commission.
Examine each section,

discover signs of greatness. My heart
drums like toy soldiers, my eyes
strain under strip lights, the walls

of the Moscow Brain Institute seep
as I seek to decipher these maps:
a dry archipelago under glass.

Thirty-one thousand waterless islands:
not one means a thing to me.
I’m searching for flashmarks,

shadows of revolutionary thought,
the flush of a motherland’s pride,
or even the hint of a crash

of conscience, regret at comrades
shot in the back by their friends,
lovers strangled in bed. There’s only

numbness. Outside, October
is rotting. A whiff of pestilence.
The pounding of four sets of hooves.

 

This poem was selected for the anthology The Very Best of 52. It was inspired by this article in The Independent.
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