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 Somebody Else's Babies ...

Somebody Else's Babies ... or a poem for Steve King a Republican
Representative of our esteemed governing classes who recently
came along with another jaw-dropping piece of White Supremacist
bullshit ...

Somebody else's babies
grew up in this green &
pleasant land to go on to
fight & die in the American
War in Vietnam, & the two
unforgivable invasions of Iraq,

which is far more than you
did Steve King,
you draft-dodging,
tough-talking patriot you,

so when you next wake up
calling out 'our destiny' maybe
you'd like to visit some graveyards
& pay some respect,
you empty-headed
Republican fool,

oh & glance back through history
awhile even cheat a bit by using
google quotes & get some sense
of who else in the history of the
20th century crowed about
'our destiny' ... you malignant
fascist you.

Calling it today!

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 #66 Politics is quite simple ...

Politics can be quite simple really.

If you wish the sympathy
of the broad masses, you
must tell them the crudest 
& most stupid things,

& it is quite a special secret
pleasure how the people
around us fail to realize
what is really
happening to them,

& make the lie big,
make it simple,
keep saying it,
and eventually
they will
believe it.

& all propaganda must be
popular and its intellectual
level must be adjusted to
the most limited intelligence
amongst those it is
addressed to,

& history comes around
& many of the tried &
trusted methods for
running things just
keep on making
that eternal return.

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 #64 That Stupid Hat!

Just seeing that dumb red hat
gives me the Heebeejeebees,
the Holy Camoleys,
I get the Willies,
the John B. Scrotes,
I feel Ben Carsoned,

as if I've been Rogered in my sleep
by Quasimodo & then been forced
to pleasure the Seven Dwarfs,

I have the shivers,
I plead repugnance,
I share the odium,

I experience that near frenzied disgust
as left by a cold slug traversing one's
naked arm in the dank moonlight,

when that oh so ridiculous red tractor
hat is worn by men who have
chauffeurs & bejeweled
golf carts,
& look like a fat cat's fantasy
of a fat cat,

to Make America Great Again for that matter
maybe you have to go as far back as Sitting Bull,
Red Cloud, the Shawnee, herds of bison,
counting coup, & eagle-feather headdresses,

Making America Great Again does not in any
way involve Leroy from the hills feeling better
about his race or Donald J. Trump coming
forth as some sort of Poor Man's Moses.

I hate that stupid hat!

Poems for Trump #63 Julian Assange Pisses Me Off

He's all smirking with his
secrets that he knows &
we don't but he's going
to bless us with their
presence as if the shit
he's all Wikileaking
wasn't already guessed
at & yes, thanks Assange
for helping elect Trump
you Libetarian-crypto-fascist
you,

with your all-knowing so-called
Liberal airs that have just
helped make the world
worse in actual objective
fact,

well the CIA watch us all!
heck thats news to me,
not as if I didn't know
that as a 14 year old
in England 46 years ago,

& so when you sit in your
comfy chair in your
Embassy exile please
remember that I cannot
for the life of me fathom
how helping elect Trump
is in any way a good thing,

to hell with you Julian Assange,
you pompous self-important
rat.

Poems for Trump #62 Do We Really Think They Care?

Do We Really Think They Care?


Trump voters that is,
about shady Russian ties to dark oligarchs
& billion ruble deals,
conflicts of interest,
ties made in China,
family business entanglements?

day after day of golf,
Mar A Largo Winter White House hustle,
enormous Secret Service bills as the
Trumps are scattered here, there
and it seems everywhere,

dicey handshakes,
White Supremacists in the White House,
the American Constitution,
Legal niceties such as checks
& balances,
day after day
lies about this,
& lies about that?

hypocrisies & shallow
empty throw-aways
at the African American
Museum,
Sean 'Fool me two times' Spicer,
media bans,
EPA anti-science,
utterly insane
nuclear pronouncements?

a huge, very huge
military budget,
some backtracking
on the wall,
word salad Muslim ban
justifications?

an overweight, ignorant
orange-faced hustler
just counting those
dollar bills as
he rakes
them in?

Do we really think
they care?

I think not
because well
first off
at least now there isn't
a black, Kenyan, Islamist
Marxist running things,

we can all be so thankful
for that,

& all the other stuff
just seems by the way
in comparison.

Poems for Trump #61 Trump Loves his Money ...

Trump has overseas businesses
& assures us he has no conflicts
here, there & everywhere ...

Oh well sure,
we're reassured that you won't
actually be using every angle,
turning every corner, fine-tuning
every legality to bring those dollars
rolling in ...

just as he did with Trump University,
his pitiful bottled water & steak props
at his 'news' conference, his ties made
in China, his Mar A Lago Winter White
House operation, his Trump jet rentals,
your seats next to the President-elect for
close to a cool million ...

his Paul Manafort with his Ukraine deals,
his numerous go-fers all bouncing around
from here to Moscow, his secret deals we'll
all soon know about, his money laundering
Azerbaijan hotel racket, his red fucking hats,
all your Trump makin' a buck wheelin' & dealin'
that continues as we speak ...

& the hell of it is all the poor schmucks who think
you're Daddy Bigbucks & would love the chance
to one day make it just as you, all gold this & big
that & pomp & privilege & trickle-down & screw
the little man, the brown man, the other man &
yes by Jesus he's the man to get it done,
he speaks our language,
feels our pain ...

the only language he speaks is monetary,
the only values he has are green-backed, the only
everyman he looks out for is the mark he's about
to take in Donald Trump's corner store 3 card monte.

Trump sure loves his money, & thanks you all for
this great opportunity to use the Presidency of this
here United States to just plain rake it in like a
chubby, orange Scrooge McDuck in his golden,
tingling, vast & filling basement.

Poems for Trump #61 Let's Make A Deal or Democracy 101.

Come on down
right on down now,
a brand new car,
deluxe washer dryer
brand spankin' new
& all ready to go,
spin that wheel,
turn that square,
answer that question
& gamble that dollar,
Donald J. Trump
has come to town,

the Dealmaker
the Best of the Best,
the All American
gettin' it done
wise & wicked
grinnin' fat cat,
who'll somehow
keep an eye out
for all you smaller
folks as he swings
those roundabouts
& crosses those t's
& cashes his chips,

Donald J. Trump
will make that dollar,
dig that coal &
bury that pipeline,
negotiate that better
ditch that failure,
scrap that law,
watch out for
that business
& surely curb
those watchdogs,

& money will be
made but not by
you or I or Shirl
or Bob but those oh so
connected & Sheldon's
& Coke Brother's &
Investors & Directors
& Oligarchs & Overseas
Accounts & the select
few who always,
always, seem to
do just fine,

& the pitiful irony
if you will of all
this Making Great
Again & victory
for the Little Man
is that the little
man cast his lot
with someone
who never gave
the slightest damn
& Earl & Nancy
once more get
the short stick,
the bad apple,
the cracker
without
the prize,
the pathetic hat
& the broken
fading whistle.

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 #57 Poem for the brother who leapt.

Poem for the brother who leapt ...

Did you see it?
That brother can do it
oh yes indeed he can,

like a young trout at dusk,
in a sweet still lake,
like a pouncing cheetah,
from many yards out,
like Wille May in the outfield,
for a soaring high ball,
like the most monstrous of great whites
rising from the dark depths & exploding
out of the ocean seal prey all clenched
in its merciless jaws,

like a cobra after transfixing its quietened mark,
like the most glorious of lithe pole vaulters,
like the most dandy of sweet young gymnasts,
like the great bull Magic Johnson springing over all & slam
dunkin' that rocketed ball as the whole court is helpless & the
people rock & its more points on that board,

that brother did it
just tore that Southern Hate right on out
of their White Pride hands,

brother just plain did it.

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.