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 #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 #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 #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 #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 #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 #50 Cousin Donald ...

Cousin Donald Comes to Town ...

Elroy was all cock-a-hoop cos
cousin Donald was a-comin'
a visiting & they were so darn
chuffed & tremblin' in anticipation
that friday night the seven of them
in the one bed had a real problem
actually sleeping.

Ma got out the best crockery
& had it laid out on the flag
hoisted down from the old
post by the front door &
Jebediah had just come back
from huntin' with some real
dandy lookin' coons.

As Eula was busy a-skinnin'
& all the clan was gatherin'
in their finest quilted smocks
& threadbare suits usually
kept for best & courtin' on
Saturday afternoons.

Cousin Donald's limousine
had a problem gettin' up
the windy road so Sam &
old Benjamin were carrying
him along in a sort-of-home-made
palanquin constructed from
pine poles and a large
crate that mama usually
reserved for storing the
winter jams & pickles,

All the boys started a-hollerin'
& a-whoopin' as Cousin
Donald turned the corner
& his loud Orange face
broke into a broad slightly
deranged grin for he knew
that the moment would soon
come when the shine would
flow & they'd get down to
some serious jigging &
fiddlin' but of course he'd
not be the fiddler on account
of his tiny fingers & innate
inability to be able to learn
one damn thing at all.

Cousin Donald restored in them
that pure American ideal of being
able to make it big in this world
& they all told themselves that
if Cousin Donald could do it they
could too meaning a golden
crapper & shiny brocaded
curtains & silver toothbrushes
& diamond watches & silk
drawers & leopard skin pill
box hats.

Oh Cousin Donald inspired them
just so oh yes he surely did & this
day would be re-told over camp
fires and cross-burnings for months
no, years to come,

... the day Cousin Donald came a
visiting.
Oh so blessed, blessed day
& thankyou Sweet Lord Jesus,
thankyou.

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 #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 #27 America Pretends

America pretends ... & then has another drink & goes home.

America pretends today
that it didn't actually
put an unqualified
narcissistic bully
in the position
of the most
powerful man
in the whole known universe,

America pretends today
that somehow
this lying
two-faced con-man
can best represent
their interests
& actually givea damn,

America pretends today
that its o.k.
that the office
of the President
is now run by a
scamming tycoon
real-estate developer
whose claim to fame
is really just
his name,

America pretends today,
that mocking the broken,
denigrating tortured prisoners,
sexual-assault,
bigotry & racism
are all forgivable
in their newly
minted Chief,

America pretends today,
that this choice
is not a reflection
of the darkness
in its people,
of the false promise
of a Great America,
and the bitter poison
that is white folks
fear & dread.

America has another drink
& then
goes home.

(With thanks to the late great Francis Vincent Zappa)

Poems for Trump #7 The People.

The People …

"I am here because I want to be among my friends and among
the people,”

The people seem not to care for the actual truth
& appear quite happy in their pretence,

the people think we’re going to hell in a hand
basket & its brown folks fault,

the people are mightily concerned with
who belongs & who doesn’t,

the people wear red hats & wave
Great America signs,

the people think All Lives Matter which
misses the point completely,

the people are mostly white folks but darker folks
can get hustled behind the podium for the TV,

the people don’t seem to watch the same
newsreels as you & I,

the people scorn the media & don’t much
like the news at all to be honest,

the people sing Christian hymns & all but
forget the words of the humble Christ,

the people think tiny Syrian refugees carry
some sort of bacillus or suicide-vests,

the people are having a love affair with a two-faced,
debt-ridden carney hustler who they
think holds all the answers,

the people forgive him so much,
and forget everything he's ever done,

the people ...

Poems for Trump #6 Hey Trump #2

Hey Trump ... part 2.

Hey Trump!
Yes you ...
You colossal donut you!

A fact is a fact
because it's a fact,
not because you
say it's a fact.

You may say:
"Nobody better ... "
but elephants don't
fly south in winter,

"The best, the very best ... "
but spiders cannot
navigate through
heavy seas,

"Immense numbers, immense .. "
but zebras will not
snuggle with lions.

"Honest man, so honest ... "
but igloos are not
built by three-toed
sloths,

"Mess, its a mess ... "
but Mitch McConnell
is not the most
handsome man alive,

"Fair, very fair .. "
but rich white guys
don't work hard
& pick tomato crops.

A fact,
is a fact,
yes it most
definitely is.

Poems for Trump #3 The Trumpeting Muppets.

The Trumpeting Muppets

I love the Muppets
I really do,
so it pains me 
just a little
to observe that
Jeffrey Lord on CNN
looks like one.

I see him as one
of the old guys
in the theatre box,
but this chaps all
smug & self-satisfied
& so all wisdom-like,
when in fact
his head is
up his Muppet ass.

Kellyanne Conway too,
she's Muppetesque,
with her death-skull smirk
her so-sure inane chatter,
she gives the impression
of all-knowing wisdom
with her condescension,
her weaves and bobs,

Stephen Miller too
all sounding that Trumpet,
seeming born fully-formed
in a cheap shiny suit,
balding already,
& so, so bitter,
after having
surrendered
his lunch money
first day of school.

If the Muppets
had an episode
produced in Hades,
these unpleasant folks
could take centre stage,
as Satan's minions
grimaced & smirked
in the stalls,

& Lucifer himself
led the applause
as the Trumpeters
bowed centre stage
amidst an odorous
sulphorous stink,
& a rapturous cacophony
of beating wings
& shiny scraping claws.

Poems for Trump #2 Cardboard Trump.

Cardboard Trump ...

Mr. Gene Huber,
salutes a 6 foot cardboard
box painted like Trump
every single day
of his life on earth,

& gives sincere thanks
to the Lord Above
for this splendid gift
this heavenly avatar
descended amongst us.

Mr. Gene Huber
loves President Trump,
loves him deeply
veritably weeps upon
meeting him,

& Trump whispers
back that love,
all thankyou's &
laying-on-of-hands
like.

He believes all his President
declares as true,
won't consider
contradictions,
all evidence,
any supposed learned word.

Mr. Gene Huber believes
this snake-oil salesman
speaks for him,
will fight for him,
cares about him,

& nothing,
absolutely nothing,
this charlatan says
or has done,
or pretends to have done,
or is found out
not to have done,
makes one half-pence
of difference.

This an adulation in a
near religious sense,
this is the masses & Mao,
this is the people
& Benito,
the children & Moses.

This is every
flawed & human
guru & rabble-rouser
ever to walk this
green, green
earth.

This is a cipher,
a vessel for hopes,
dreams & simple answers,
a man who points
to an enemy
a target for your failures,

to explain your losses,
life's roadblocks,
declare without hesitation
the answers,
the way forward
to that glorious kingdom
to come.

Mr. Gene Huber
is only human,
after all,
& I guess
we feel for him,

but a man who salutes
a 6 foot cardboard image
frightens me
in more ways
than one,
of that
I have
no doubt.