Category Archives: donald trump

The Toddler King (parts 1,2 and 3)

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The Toddler King

1

5 am. in America

the toddler king
checks his Twitter feed

a five hundred pound ball
of carbohydrate and grease
rolls across the parking lot
of a big box store

assault rifles take stock

the second amendment
thinks about making amends

the founding fathers
find themselves wanting.

2

5 am. in America

the toddler king
checks his Twitter feed

in the empty parking lot
of a big box store
a plastic bag pirouettes
on the halitotic breeze

national monuments
fear for their lives

the adjectives – good, bad, great-
drop in value again

the toddler king
picks a fight with himself.

3

5 am. in America

the toddler king
checks his Twitter feed

an empty shopping cart
rolls across the parking lot
of a big box store
and wishes it was
a metaphor for something

rivers say goodbye
to their banks

the ocean
eyes the shore

the toddler king pardons
those great American dioxides
sulphur, nitric, carbon
they are quickly released.

 

Parts 1&2 appeared previously on this blog, participating in dverse Open Link Night

Waiting for Slim/ Melania’s Cheekbones

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Waiting for Slim

Sunday afternoon in late June
I’m sitting outside The Post-Coital Beetle
watching the traffic on Broadway,
at the next table, four bearded guys
wearing flat caps and plaid shirts,
looking like the bastard sons of Mumford,
are downing pints of over-hopped pale ale.
At the traffic lights, an eighteen year old Asian kid
checks his hair in the rear view mirror
while his Lamborghini growls
like a panther on a leash.
And who is this slouching along Broadway
his bald head shining in the sun?
No, it is not an image out of Spiritus Mundi,
it’s not one of the boys of summer,
it’s Slim,
a man with all the charm of a pit bull with distemper;
his remaining hair is scrunched into an angry man-bun
he’s carrying a magazine
which he slams down on the table in front of me
“Look at this bullshit!” he whines.

Later, as the sun goes down over Point Grey
and automatic timers turn lights
on in empty Styrofoam mansions,
we settle in to a plate of nachos
and one pitcher follows another
until we find ourselves face to face
trading lines like Lennon and McCartney (well, not quite)
and driven by our shared admiration
of Melania Trump’s granite cheekbones
we compose this maudlin cri de couer

Melania
his megalomania
don’t let it stain ya
don’t let it restrain ya
don’t let it contain ya
and if he should fail ya
remember this:
you know the size
of his hands
and his……..

(the last line is drowned out
by the roar of a feral Ferrari
tearing down Broadway).

there is no stopping us…

Ivanka (a slimverse)

Ivanka
no offence
but your dad’s
a wanka.

there was more, but I can’t remember…..

Samantha Bee (a delayed reaction)

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A flashback to pre-history when I first started drinking in pubs………

It’s closing time, Saturday night, Dublin, the rest of the evening is stirring like a patient emerging from a coma (sorry, T.S) . I’ve had a few pints and got a nice buzz going but now I’m standing in the men’s washroom (toilet, bog, jacks) staring at the white tiled wall trying hard not to make eye contact with the guy beside me whose eyes are drilling into the side of my head. I eventually cave in, turn and look into his bloodshot eyes….”what are you looking at, cunt?” ….he slurs. He’s pissed, langered, hammered, plastered, three sheets to the wind and he’s angry. Why is he angry? Could be he doesn’t like the length of my hair, could be he recognises that I’m a student and considers me a member of the elite whereas he is a member of the noble working class who earn their daily bread with their hands (although, back then, the word “elite” was not typically used to describe educated people with liberal views, it was more likely to be a found on a box of chocolates – Cadbury’s Elite, save the soft centers for your mom) but mostly he’s angry because he’s a miserable cunt and the ten pints he’s consumed over the course of the evening hasn’t made him any less miserable.

So when I hear Samantha Bee call Ivanka Trump a “feckless cunt”, I think of closing time, urinals, drunks and I wonder, how in Trump’s name, did the level of discourse get this low.

 

Drain The Swamp Rag

A version of this poem appeared with 4 other poems, a little while back in the online magazine Anti-Heroin Chic

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Drain The Swamp Rag

(Walk that back
walk that back
I know I said it
but I walked that back.)

Attack dog surrogates
inveterate invertebrates
re-stock the swamp
with old white males.

Post logic, post truth,
snake oil and kool-aid
re-stock the swamp
with old white males.

Mike Pence, John Bolton
Rudy Giuliani
re-stock the swamp
with old white males

Inveterate surrogates
attack dog invertebrates
re-mail the stock
to the old white swamp

re-stock the swamp
with old white males.

I Often ask Myself the Question ( James Comey and other imponderables)

 

148

1

I often ask myself the question:
Is James Comey a bit of a wanker
a self-aggrandizing prima donna
who only looks honourable
when compared to Donald Trump?
I often ask myself that question.

2

I often ask myself the question:
can a man
mansplain to a man
or can a man
only mansplain
to a woman, and if so
if one explains something
in a condescending manner
to a member
of one’s own gender
is one, in effect,
cisplaining?
I often ask myself that question.

 

Trumplings (The Best of 2017)

This time last year, at every social event I went to, the subject of Donald Trump could not be avoided. This year? Nothing. The Trump presidency has become a bit like one of those television series that people get tired of watching – no discernible plot, no character development, poorly written dialogue and we still have to suffer through seasons 2, 3 and 4.

These are the Trump posts  I had most fun writing in 2017, they rely a bit more (I think) on language rather than straight polemic.

“Agent Orange has a dark Moment” was published in Rat’s Ass Review” and “Donald Trump – On Reflection” was published in “Oddball Magazine“.

Inauguration

it
does
not
augur
well.

 

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Donald’s Early Days

A farrago of fiascos,
banishments and bans;
weekends at Mar-a-Lago
the world in his hands.

 

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Agent Orange has a Dark Moment
Do you know who I miss? Jeb Bush. I miss Jeb Bush. He was my first. When I hit him with that low energy jibe and he fell apart and all the Bush family could not put Humpty together again, I knew I was on to something. Then Little Marco and Lyin’ Ted, I miss them too. But most of all, I miss Hillary, Crooked Hillary. Man, she was tough, had me on the ropes. It took Comey and Vlad, that pointy headed villain, to get me back on my feet. I was nearly out for the count, which might not have been a bad thing. Who needs this shit! I should give Vlad a call, I’m a bit worried -there’s no such thing as a free hack.
Reince Priebus – what kind of fucking name is that? It sounds like bad news from the doctor. “I’m sorry, Donald, you have a Reince Priebus on your rectum and it doesn’t look good”. Ha, I just made myself laugh. And Bannon, I’ve seen sofas on the side of the road in better shape than that rumpled fucker. Spice Box? Hardest job in the world – explaining the unexplainable. That Melissa Mc.Carthy just slays me. How come all the cool people are on the other side? Who have I got? Ryan and Pence? Bland and Blander? Where did Pence come from anyway with his brush cut and his antediluvian politics? The best surgeons in the world couldn’t remove the poker from that guy’s ass. Antediluvian, you didn’t expect that did you?
Talking of cool, I should give Barack a call, ask him down to Florida for a game of golf; check his birth certificate again (Joking! How I miss those days). Man, I hate this fucking White House furniture, is it Friday yet?

 

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Haiku for Donald

petulant pillock

postcranial curmudgeon

bombastic buffoon.

 

Orange is the New Bleak 1 (3)
On Reflection…. Donald Trump

America has given birth
to a giant orange child
a zaftig infant Gulliver
striding the ravaged earth
of his own imagination
trampling whole villages
swallowing villagers whole.

 

 

 

Two Poems by Jim Feeney

oddball magazine

The Fallen (2017)

1
Goodbye Reince Priebus
no longer will I contemplate
the strange music of your name –
those slender vowels reversing,
no longer will I look for meanings, explanations –
Reince?
A salve to be applied sparingly to a wound?
Put some Reince on that cut, son!
a rinse? a douche? a poultice?
and Priebus?
Latinate portliness – a Shakespearean character,
a writ to slap someone with- Habeas Priebus,
or a complicated skateboard manouevre:
He executed a perfect reverse Priebus!
Reince, it’s been a slice.

2
Scaramucci, Scaramucci,
will you do the fandango?

Anthony, we hardly knew you,
but thanks for letting us know
about Steve Bannon
and his auto-fellatio.

3
Alas, poor Stephen,
abandoned
like a rumpled sofa.

On Reflection…. Donald Trump

America has given birth
to a giant orange child
a zaftig infant Gulliver
striding the ravaged earth
of his own imagination
trampling whole villages
swallowing…

View original post 69 more words

Post-Election Rag (redux)

This poem was written earlier in the year, but it is still , I think, depressingly relevant. It also appeared with 4 other poems in the online magazine Anti-Heroin Chic

 

Post-Election Rag

 

(Walk that back

walk that back

I know I said it

but I walked that back.)

 

Attack dog surrogates

inveterate invertebrates

re-stock the swamp

with old white males.

 

Post logic, post truth

snake oil and kool-aid

re-stock the swamp

with old white males.

 

Post Obamacare,

post pussy-gate, post gator aid

re-stock the swamp

with old white males

 

Inveterate surrogates

attack dog invertebrates

re-mail the stock

to the old white swamp

 

re-stock the swamp

with old white males.

 

 

Texts from the Underworld

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he can’t quite remember when they started –

the text messages direct to his head,

actual text messages

appearing on the screen of his brain

preceded by a ping;

they were innocuous at first

quasi-inspirational stuff like:

ping! write like no one is reading;

ping! own the day, it cost you nothing.

Then they became fragmented

like someone was trigger happy

on the ‘send’ button:

ping! America, the country

ping! that God is asked to bless

ping! is hurtling down

ping! a golden garbage chute

ping! that goes all the way

ping! to hell!

Then, nothing for a while.

Then, one message repeating

its sneer implicit in its abbreviation

its adopted argot,

over and over again

a non-stop textual assault:

ping! Dems got no game

ping! Dems got no game

ping! Dems got no game….

 

Photo: Detail from fresco inside the Camposanto, Pisa, Italy

 

Bones Of Contention

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Bones of Contention

Bones to pick.

Barrack Obama pardons Chelsea Manning.

Donald Trump pardons Joe Arpaio.

Is there moral equivalence here?

The Trump surrogate on CNN thinks so

but there are no metrics to measure by

so the discussions drag on and on

and the screen splits into two heads

and the screen splits into four heads

and the screen splits into eight heads

a pundit arrives

a pundit leaves

a pundit gets indignant

a pundit gets emotional

a pundit gets that gotcha smirk

there is talk of smoke and fire

there not been one without the other

and I see this distraction of pundits

this deflection of pundits

this confusion of pundits

standing looking at the horizon

across an open plain,

oblivious, while behind them

Rome burns.

 

 

 

Goodbye Reince Priebus(with apologies to Queen)

Goodbye Reince Preibus

no more  will I contemplate

the strange music of your name

those slender vowels reversing

no longer will I look for meanings, explanations

Reince? A salve to be applied

sparingly to a wound?

a rinse? a douche? a poultice?

and Priebus? A complicated procedure?

Last night, doctors performed

an emergency preibus

the patient is doing well.

Goodbye Reince Preibus

I’m sorry to see you go

now we are left with Steve Bannon

and his auto fellatio

Scaramucci, Scaramucci

will you do the fandango.