By | 1 May 2019

Your blonde helmet shines like a Greek god’s whip.
I want to join your army of whatever.
I want to wear that military figure-hugging dress with just a hint of brocade.
Little buttons and hooks wink like a glint of evil in a child’s eye.
You pour down hallways
hang-glide into the Oval Office in your effortless heels.


Your eyes emit an icy breeze as if in an ad for breath mints –
people get cold and glamorous simultaneously.

When you flirt with fake Vladimir Putin
I feel America blush a colour just shy of the old Soviet flag.


Kevin Spacey’s ghost was slapped out the window of the White House,
hot hashtags burned into his skin.
Recast as a little bird.
Fuck that guy.

I vote for you with your weaponised feminism.
I vote for you with your fourth-wall sentences that
I vote for you with your nasty plans
and occasional murder.

Death threats are as common as Facebook notifications –
You dismiss them with arms elegant as a crane landing on a lake.
A secret smile disappears like a coffee bean into milk.
Pregnant with lies, or maybe a girl, who knows, they didn’t renew the series.

Your armour glistens like your teeth,
snake-spine fingers signing bills. Doing business.
First Lady, you had a plan all along.
They pulled your anger out like a doll string
and now it’s time to hear it speak.

But Americans can’t cope with your Khaleesi
the same way they meltdown if they hear
a female voice coming from the cockpit.

When the army recruit said,
Do you have a plan that’s not going to get us all killed?
You said,
Would you ask me that question if I was a man?
Hell the fuck no, Robin Wright.

We trust you like venom trusts death,
we trust you like a nail trusts penetration,
we trust you like sin trusts guilt.
You got this, you delicious monster.

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