The greatest clown

in all the world

Is a chauvinist, orange pig

Who came to power when

Russians ensured the

national vote was rigged.

He doesn’t like the lefties

Or faiths from Eastern soil

Unless they’re helping him get fat

On money, arms and oil

Climate change is fake news,

Disability self-inflicted

A trail of sexist crimes for which

He’ll never be convicted

Impeach or assassinate?

Sadly, neither make much sense

When you look at the alternative

And see that it’s Mike Pence.

Hair the colour of smoker’s phlegm,

Policies like cancer;

A narcissist with nuclear codes –

A riddle with no answer.


New York’s summer breath

climbs heavy through the window

and the restless worm wrestles

through apple rot.


Narcissus’ trumpets

wither in astonished atrophy,

recoiling into the earth


as the amnion ruptures,

a parting of seas in the

holiest of churches –  



the wide open legs

of an obedient woman,


held to ransom by

blanched agony, lips

anaemic, lily white.


Skull shards shift tectonic

and give passage

to the crowning;


the searing stretch of emergence,

the ripping of the mantle,

the sting of the slap –


And it breathes.


The bed sheets are soiled

with immigrant blood

the colour of November poppies,


and writhing in it,

the jaundiced newborn skin

of an epoch in waiting:


a God complex

with baby sized fists

clutching nuclear warheads.