Another open mic night, another poem about Trump. Maybe it's because there was a Million Women's March in Washington. Maybe it was the endless "p---y" references from more than one poet. At any rate, here we are. This actually feels even more like a regular poem if only for the amount of times I went back and edited, more than usual because I got up very early this morning. Thanks for reading.
The million dissenters are discarded
by the man who uses terms
like president, prime minister, and monarch
interchangeably for himself and others.
He eyes fetch females via video.
Not a bit of gold dug up between them
for miles and miles. No real ambition.
He needs a woman who raises her voice
like a fish needs a bicycle that doesn't run itself.
Outside is a fiery lake of losers.
Inside, everyone praises the oldest boy king,
the best beast in all of Bethlehem.
The world has been presented
charred on his plate.
He demands it be sent back
over his wife's reminding
this is what he ordered
Poor pussy pats baby with declawed paw,
cannot curb septuppled newborn,
addicted to pleasure, treating office
like world's best bed and breakfast.
Except interrupting interlopers
interfering with his favorite passion
flicking online rubber bands,
beating down brass, saying black
is beautiful when he has her tug his heart.
Outside the sirens lull him
to sleep as if a purr, a perfect day
for five seconds, until frayed nerves
make quiet air scratch frond-like at his feet,
bid him search for other frays.
|Kirk Etherton gets the list started. And he brought colored paper too!|
Special thanks to Kirk Etherton, Annie Goldstone, Erik Nelson, Carol Weston, Martha Boss, Dexter Roberts, Toni Bee, Michael Konan and James Van Looy.