In this eye are capitalists. They parade across your sclera in marble top hats. They loiter with knuckles mining gold in trouser pockets. They swell your eye with forty-eight bulbous stars. You rapidly blink to replicate a film projector to end the image. They employ your senses to let them dally.
In this eye are proletarians. Their hands bustle with hammer and sickle. They view toil through a corrective lens. They whistle for you to scat in rhythm. Work is just. Work is just. Their melodies slow industrial beats.
You styled a Van Dyke after testing mescaline. Your manager approved of the Lenin look. The factory roars like a dragon’s orgasm within your temples. Concrete walls flay your chin like a guillotine spraying gas mouton and blades. Your right eye spins so the left labors more.