ROBIN WRIGHT!

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. 
DAMN. 
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. 
Girl. 
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

scissor-glide.

I vote for you with your nasty plans

and occasional murder. 
Death threats are as common as Facebook notifications –

whatever.

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?

No.

HELL NO.

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.