Poems for Trump #71 The Core of the Donald.

The pure core of The Donald,
that is when he's stripped down
to his essential essence much like
the very last doll in the Russian doll
set-up where one reveals another is 
colored green & has pictures of
Washington, Hamilton, & Jackson
includes a religious proclamation
together with some esoteric Masonic
or such magic pyramid with an all-seeing
floating eye & an eagle grasping vegetation
in its claws as curious almost tantric circles
overhead & Latin sayings abound all tattooed
& water-marked to stop counterfeiters 
& numbered & in series & signatures 
& bold, bold numbers ...

the core of The Donald is denominated & in 
the very greenest of greens.

Poems for Trump #70 Donald is Moved.

Donald is moved ...

Donald found it quite the final & totally
last straw that little children were being
gassed & slaughtered horribly in Syria
& so sent over some missiles at $1 million
a pop but before doing so let the Russkies
& Assad know they were coming & even
then deliberately managed to avoid actually
hitting the runways which if you were not
aware are actually a vital component of a
runway & so today said airport is back in
operation,

so Donald was so deeply moved by dying
children that he put aside his refugee ban
& his muslim ban & his overseas aid cuts
& his previous dismissal of Obama's attempts
to act & sent off a few missiles but first let
the bad guys know they were coming.
Donald is moved,

oh yes indeed
so moved.

Poems for Trump #69 Come Back Barack ... The Unexpurgated Version.

Come back Barack ... the unexpurgated version.

Come back Barack,
we miss you so,

you weren't perfect for sure,
but good god you are not Him!

that slithering denizen of the darker realms
who always gives the impression of just having
returned from some sort of vile monetary orgy
that involves rolling around stark naked in piles
of dollar bills while midget Russian hookers threaten
& tease with whips of essence of distilled cold dark
great-white eye peering awfully as it lunges from
a cold, cold darkness while poor & humble Hispanic
crop workers are herded into stumbling mumbling
groups & forced to recite a sort of incantation of greatness
to a fat comb-overed oranged white man who really just
makes his dollars by gaming the system & somehow grabbed
the heart strings of those left behind & those out for a sweet,
sweet taste of revenge & just plain mean vindictiveness &
Akbar's & Leilas were brought in for his pleasure & amusement
as he sat all chubby, naked & sated on his golden fucken crapper
as they pleaded for a home for their cold & starving children as
he took a certain pleasure in waving his hand no! as henchmen
from the reinvigorated KKK all idiot grinning showed them the
back door & returned them to the horrors of war as so-called
Christian preachers & smart shirted fancy-ass prosperity gospel
ministers all prayed and hallelujahed around him whilst getting
relief from desperate Vegas hookers & rent-boys as they placed
their manicured hands atop his sizzled orange head ...

Goddamn!

Poems for trump #68 Come Back Barack ...

Come back Barack ...

Come back Barack ...
oh my how we miss
you so,

I know you weren't perfect
in that Commander in Chief
bombing innocent folks overseas
sort of way,

but Sweet Jesus at least
you are not Trump,

you had some natural dignity
as a decent man with his heart
in the right place for most of
the time & you tried, at least
you tried to make things better
for all folks,

& you could shed a tear for the
children & you could take a joke
& you could chuckle with the
best of them & you did have
good dance moves & your
hair wasn't some sort of
freeze-dried candy floss
sort of thing,

& you didn't re-tweet Fascists,
& didn't scapegoat, & lie, & work
every single angle possible to
put a few more dollars in your
bank account,

& you had a keen intelligence for
important things such as the health
of your citizens & the world they live
in & you wouldn't say Islamic terrorism
because you knew it was a dangerous
& short-sighted & in the end truly awful
way to play into the hands of the enemy,

& you kneeled down to talk to kids in
mini-pope mobiles, & you had an honesty
& a calm reasoned approach that even
if that was too much at times at least
you didn't jump into the fire and wade
in the dark morass of prejudice & ignorance,

& you didn't appoint all your family to
powerful positions so they too could work
that dollar angle & you didn't promise
idiocies to gullible desperate idiots &
you at least weren't a sexual predator
& a two-bit snake-oil salesman who
worked a three-card monte with a
'University' so as to fleece the believers,

& you weren't called Donald Trump &
you were at least a Democrat & son of
a gun look at us now!

Poems for Trump #67 Tired of All This.

Tired of all this! ... well so am I.

ha! yes!
sure as heck I'm not exactly
jumping for joy in these end
days of dying planetary life,
threatened existences, starving
homeless 5 year old Mustafa's,
engaged Supremacists, murdered
black boys, hillbilly junkies, fading
healthcare, America First & talk
of 'our destiny' & bullshit such,

but what am I to do?
Watch Star Trek re-runs & eat ice-cream?
America calls out to be noticed,
& heck what else can we do
but pay attention.

Poems for Trump #65 I hate this fucking orange faced bastard.

A poem for Stephanie ...
who calls it.

I hate this fucking orange faced bastard
is a metered late Romantic all rhymes
& gentle allusions & meek symbolism
as of lambs in the fields
& wandering clouds
work of late Elizabethan
whimsy & fancy,
well actually no,
its not!

I hate this fucking orange
faced bastard!
I hate him so much that
it begins to trouble me,
to make me reflect,
ponder on this,
wonder on that.

Is it just the way he looks,
all white, fat & comb-overed?
is it his stupid plastic clownish
expressions of surprise &
ultimate dumbitude?
his Trump steaks, & Trump water,
his big fucking Golden Trump Tower,
like he's still 13 & insecure
about the size of his dick?
His Trump magazines, his Trump University,
his cruel insults, his petty infantile joking,
his golfing?
oh how I loath his golfing.

Is it his hypocrisies,
his secret deals,
hidden handshakes,
trophy wives who have
to pleasure him?
lonely son who he leaves
all alone to swing a golfclub
in a golden room with
Manhattan views?

Is it his racist Birther bullshit?
Could be,
that sealed the deal a while
back now,
his fear-mongering, his endless
endless lying,
his Islamophobia,
(look it up Deplorables
if you're at a a loss here).

Is it his carney con-man
taking all you's for a
ride if only, only you'd
seen it?

Could be all & more, really,
but I hate this fucking orange faced bastard,
that I do know.

Poems for Trump #60 Ben Carson is an Idiot #2

"They too had a dream that
one day their sons, daughters,
grandsons, granddaughters ... 
might pursue prosperity &
happiness in this land."

Well perhaps not Ben ...
perhaps while 10% of their
chained compatriots died around
them in the dark, shit-filled hull
of this heaving slave-ship they
may well have dreamt of home,
of family, of safety, warmth, of
the basic human right to dignity
& freedom & an ability to simply
walk through life going upon
one's business without the threat
of armed traders carting you off
to other lands ...
perhaps they dreamt of that,

& perhaps upon arrival & unloading
& a brutal harsh sunlight & a reckoning
of those you knew who'd died & been
thrown to the sharks & an examining
of teeth & body as a horse at trade
while upon a block as folks whiter
than you shouted out in strange
tongues & your wife & child were
elsewhere & your whole life was at
that moment in cruel & tragic collapse,
you might have thought of other things
rather than ...
Oh lord, yes, yes, one day I'm going
to be able to make a buck in this Land
of the Free and Home of the Brave ...

Poems for Trump #59 Ben Carson is an Idiot

“That’s what America is about,” Carson said. “A land of dreams and opportunity. There were other immigrants who came here in the bottom of slave ships, worked even longer, even harder for less."

Ben Carson is a might confusing
because he is without a doubt
a brilliant brain surgeon
& yet,
& yet ...

according to him
he communes telepathically
with wild bears,
can calm armed-robbers,
stabbed his best friend,
& now sees slavery as
some sort of Welcome
To the Land of Liberty
All are Welcome Act.

Ben Carson is an idiot
because well ...
where to start,
well how's about millions
of folks forced to board
ships naked, afraid,
chained in rows,
as SLAVES,

& yes, half of all slave infants
died in the first year,
survivors lived on a basic
nutrition-free gruel,
there was diarrhea, dysentery,
whooping cough, blindness,
skin lesions &
convulsions,
& they were
SLAVES.

but to Dr. Ben Carson
these terrified, beaten,
chained, whipped,
SLAVES ...

were immigrants
just like you
and just like me.

Poems for Trump #58 Jesus Would Smack Trump Upside the Head or What would Jesus Do?

Sure as heck wouldn't fall
for that "Oh its my favourite
book & I keep it by my bedside
trick" & gather chubby Christian
flunkeys to pray over & anoint
a fascist idiot child,

Would see right through using
a grieving widow as a prop for
a photo-shoot extravaganza,
& then talk of record applause
lines like this was America's
Most Talented & he was a cheap
ass promoter milking the crowd,

Wouldn't for a second fall for
the Syrian children carry an
infection to the nation & must
be denied entry because you
never know but of course we can
because deranged white folks are
more of a threat,

Sure as shit could tell the difference
between a good apostle & that
scheming White Supremacist
Bannon & the bald dude who
endlessly talks of his overlord
being obeyed or damn sure you'll
all be for it,

Would most definitely not need
a golden crapper to rest his fat
white ass on & a golden stroller
for his special one & lacquered
mirrored sitting room that looks
like a hillbilly wet-dream version of
of 'how rich folks dun live rightly,'

Would most definitely not be seen
wearing that stupid red hat which
more than hints at a long gone
world with shades of whiteness
& exclusion & don't come knocking
on my door you pitiful wretch you,

Would never in a million friggin'
years have voted Republican &
sided with a lying, duplicitous
con-man with all the shades of
darkness that usually are reserved
for the actual Fallen Angels.

Poems for Trump #56 William Owens.

Is William Owens happy in heaven?

If William Owens caught sight
of the monstrous tugging at
the heart strings of the Chief
Theatric Officer Trump & the
so cheap & cynical little
throw-away line of "The
Bible teaches us ..."

& saying Owen was likely
happy in heaven because
the chamber "broke a record"
for the length of its ovation,

would he be happy to see
his death & his mother's
desperate suffering used
by a shallow vain opportunist
as backdrop to his coming
out as so presidential?

& whilst orchestrating grief
for the folks at home but then
"They lost Ryan" is thrown
out there because heaven
forbid Trump could take
any responsibility for this
soldiers death,

heaven forbid.

Poems for Trump #55 Success ...

Success ...

After denigrating the Khan family,
dishonoring John McCain,
delaying donation cheques,
gathering dignified Veterans
as a so useful backdrop,
to prove his genuine
love of the people.

This draft-dodging golf playing
lover of 'our brave soldiers'
brings the house down
has mothers weeping
& receives the mighty
acclaim as being "Now,
Now A President!"
even from that rational
critic Mr. Van Jones
of CNN,

one speech tugging at pride,
nation & desperate loss
& he's now the president?
this is all it took,
this cynical
lying theatric,
one crafty move in Congress
can't make up for a history
of bigotry & hate

oh no
Trump
it cannot!

Poems for Trump #54 Winning.

We have to start winning wars again ...

"We never lost a war,
America never lost,
We never win a war
... & we don't fight to win,"

Bone-spur golf-playing draft dodger
Donald Trump offering forth
more words of wisdom
& his master plan
for America's future
& military might
& winning,

& what this actually means
a $54 billion military budget
with all the cuts that entails
& a possible use of 'all'
available weapons in
an effort to prove
this fighting
to win,

& perhaps we should
never underestimate
just what exactly
this man will do
& just how exactly
he will do it to
prove this point
& be the winner

& perhaps we should
tremble a little
at this point,
because ...
as usual,
its all about
... winning.

Poems for Trump #53 My Doctor tells me

My Doctor Tells Me ...

My doctor tells me I spend far
too much of my waking life on
The Great Orange One & she 
may be right but then again
what can I do when day to day
life seems to mirror his surly
& desperate antics.

There's my neighbour Luis & his
family who I need to wonder if
one of these days they'll just no
longer be there but driven over
bumpy roads to an old life in
a destitute village or strife-ridden
Central American landscape.

There's my son's friend Mustava,
absorbing sponge-like the daily
briefing of hate & ignorance which
depict his family & their religion as
a direct threat to all we hold dear
& we'd better look out & take special
care where those oh so alien folks
are concerned.

There's newsreel, oh newsreel, of
desecrated grave-stones, saluting
fascists, oh so empowered & brutal
thinking supremacists & simple
vicious country boys.

There's chants & adulation fit
for a French Sun-King of the late
17th Century & visions of gold bidets
marble faucets, designer dresses &
portly men swinging clubs over
manicured flag-bedecked greens,
while lonely sons stay home &
wonder.

There's 'enemy of the people' &
bigger, mightier, number one again
& us first & oh yes you'd better pay
attention because we're after you
no matter how or why or what.

Everyday life is a fog of orange
vanity & thuggery & me trying to
pretend otherwise just won't cut
it at all & thats what I told her &
she reluctantly agrees & so life
goes on ... Dense, Orange &
Flickering Dubious Headlined.

Poems for Trump #52 Simple Kindness

Simple kindness ...

"I think if this country gets any kinder or gentler, 

it’s literally going to cease to exist."

Trump chatting it up with

Playboy gave us that sweet

gem of philosophical & 

political wisdom,

Oh kindness ..

that communist conspiracy

cooked up by that bearded longhair

Leon Trotsky & close to a bacillus

that threatens the goodness

of the nation & thus simply 

treating each other nicely

becomes the equivalent

of Red Guard fanaticism,

as if niceness was a Leninist 

conspiracy & looking out for 

strangers was an underhand 

ruse & the first station on the 

way to the Siberian Gulag

& children informing on 

their mama & papa,

as if gentleness was a sin

close to murder & a defect

solved by drastic measures

somewhat akin to re-education
camps in the steamy jungle
morning,

as if looking out for one

another came with a 

guaranteed negative 

for the giver & thus 

wasn't at all a good

deal & heck isn't a

thing I'd sign off

on thats for damn

sure,

as if brotherly love & simple

common solidarity in the 

face of life's trials & harsh

tribulations was anathema

to the 'real' man who sure

as heck won't give an inch

if he thinks the other dudes

gettin' one over on him,

as if compassion was an

elitist liberal virtue & caring

for one another was mirrored

by the Manson Family & sure

by golly gee we're not taking

that road you must be kidding

seriously now,

as if love was not a Christian virtue

& as if trust revealed you as a 

taken rube & as if letting your

guard down & giving a fuck

meant Satan had taken hold

in your heart & you were now

a direct threat to all we hold

near & dear & sacred.

Just be nice ... 

Its not so much to ask.

Poems for Trump #51 Who Needs Milo

Who Needs Milo.

With vaunted luminaries of rational
objective & considered thought
verging on complete idiot hysteria
& unarguable mental breakdown
as Trevor " Obama has been mentored
and guided by hardcore communists,
anti-American Islamic radicals ... " Loudon,
a Londoner, so sure, that should help
his credentials in getting a handle
on US politics,

& Sheriff David "[Black Lives Matter] are black slime
and must be eradicated" Clarke,
the guy loved by Fox News because
of his darker skin, cold eyes, cop uniform & near
hysterical approach to America's pressing
social questions,
oh & did I mention "Obama is a heartless, souless
bastard" & called for anti-Trump protests to
"be quelled"?
well there's that too,

& Clare "the Muslim Brotherhood has infiltrated
the Obama administration" Clarke,
who also warned of a co-ordinated effort
to involve Muslims in the electoral process
by the ... oh yes, Muslim Brotherhood.
So she was there too, that acutely aware
political scientist,

& let us not forget Frank 'conspiracy nut' Gaffney,
Frank 'U2 singer Bono is aiding an islamic plot
to ... etc etc " Gaffney,
yes, Frank 'Birther' Gaffney because well, our
black so-called American President does have
 a strange name foreign doesn't he.

Milo got cancelled because of his Catholic priest
blow-job banter which apparently crossed a line
but sheeooot, who needs him when you've such
a wealth of inspiring speakers to raise the roof
& stir the melting pot till it hardens.

Who needs Milo.

Poems for Trump #49 Contempt ...

Contempt ...

At times my thoughts
and words just plain
shout an unqualified
contempt for folks
who have faith
in a two-bit hustler
& want to spend
billions on a wall
across this land
to keep out brown
folks called Jose
& aren't too keen
on Muslim folks
either & are quite
happy leaving refugee
children to die alone
in storm-wrecked seas
& talk about Jesus
but reek of sulphur
damn right I feel
contempt so don't
try to make me
feel guilty about
it cos thats just
how I see it
that day.

Poems for Trump #48 Independents ...

Independents ... gotta love 'em.

Independents have it hard as

its tough to choose between

a democrat and a raving

fascist idiot I know that I do &

the nights they must have

spent tossing & turning over

this near unfathomable

question of Trump or Clinton

as President elicits the deepest

sympathy on my part for this

near unanswerable dilemma

of Trump or a Democrat & I see

I do, how tough it is to be an

Independent these days, just
so very, very hard.

Poems for Trump #47 Bannon & Miller

Bannon & Miller do the high-steppin' toodle-oo

Breitabart was permitted entry of course, you know
'Expel All Muslims' Breitbart, & CNN NYT, & LAT were all
held back by some panting freshly-minted Republican staffer & had
to wait all shocked & chagrined at the closed door as one blank dead
eyed maniacally grinning young newly promoted Lieutenant Miller and 
one bull-heavy Bannon strutted like obscene vulture marionettes in their
favourite special-wear searingly shiny knee-high Wehrmacht boots which
had just been licked mirror clean & furiously polished with their very sweat
by a heaving gaggle of simpering craven Republican lackeys who had come
comically dancing & prancing when summoned from the floor of the so-called
People's House with a "yes sir, no sir ... what can I do next sir" to grease the skids
on the Fascist Express with the their very blood & the tears of the innocents gathered
so fresh that very dawn with no stops till the sun rises on your New World.
.... oh yes indeed.

Poems for Trump #46 Victory Lap ...

Victory Lap …

It’s a riding of the golden enthroning chariot 

around  the tumultuous roaring coliseum as of 

ancient & fast declining Rome,  

all amidst a clamoring sea

of simple red-hatted whiteness,

as he absorbs, just soaks right on in, 

that honest folks love.

All the while smiling 

like Vinnie in a bar in Queens

chuckling over his latest conquest story, 

as he shares weak Martini’s with his 

drunken & besotted lieutenants.

His time to gloat & sneer at the weak & fallen,

the small boy’s big day out,

riding in papas fancy car  

while tossing out empty favors 

& a smirking Royal glance at the limping

trembling, so victorious 

hopeful rubes.

No, it’s not a thankyou tour,

it’s a Victory lap.

Poems for Trump #44 Republican Jesus is summoned ...

Republican Jesus is summoned to Trump Tower, part 1.

The message was plain
'Be There!'
& Republican Jesus
knowing quite well
which side of the bread
his butter was on sprang
abjectly into action,
calling up young Fitzroy
his at-home, on-call & quite
the dandy fancy man,
so splendidly liveried
& be-ribboned chauffeur,

Republican Jesus donned his
favourite gold lame cape,
an assumed nod to Joseph
& his many-colored coat,
but more to the fawning Liberace
& the empty husk that was old Elvis,
he of super dazzling & oh so mighty
US cultural fame.

Republican Jesus's limousine
had tinted windows & hanging
pine-forest scent,
a shield of sorts from the world outside,
for that world vexed & troubled him,
but fear not,
only mildly,
to be truly,
truly,
honest.

His soft & oh so precious behind
rested gently on the finest
of crushed velvet cushions,
his delicate manicured hand
lay poised by the window,
for though he abhorred
the hoi-polloi of New York's
teeming dirty streets
he would on occasion
raise a weary limp wrist
to random passers-by
in the style preferred
by the older Queen of England,
slightly touching but yet
oh so very distant.

He wondered to himself
as he neared that place,
that mighty Tower,
that huge & glittering
so utterly glorious edifice
that just simply radiated
& desperately oozed
veritably discharged
rank wealth, indecency,
& the emptiness of death in
life's dull yet seemingly comforting
sweet ice cold embrace.

Why oh why had he been summoned?
For what?
Oh how he tingled & shivered,
& by God how was he so deserving?
& he wondered just why
& how could he be so blessed
this very day & so ...
how shall I say
... privileged.