Ode to a Fake Nightingale

10/26/16

MY reason aches, and a drowsy horror pains
My sense, as though of a billionaire’s roofies I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull quaaludes to my brains
One minute past, and Trump-wards we have sunk:
‘Tis not through pity for thy sorry lot,                     5
But being too crappy in thine crappiness,
That thou, plastic-wingèd mascot of the apocalypse,
In some discordant plot
Of backroom smoke, and shadows numberless,
shrieks of bummer and full-blown dictatorships.            10

 

O for a draught of vintage! that hath been
stewed a long age on the warming earth,
Tasting of Monica and the country-green,
Dancing the macarena like some partial birth!
O for a cleansing of the racist South!            15
Full of the fake, the ignorant hypocrites,
With beaded slogans twinkling at caps’ brims,
And their slur-stainèd mouths;
I want to slink, and leave the world unseen,
And fade away, misanthropic, into the future dim:            20

 

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the evil hast never known,
The pussy-grabs, the emails, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other boast;
Where drone-bombs shake a few, sad, last kids,            25
Where Jill Stein grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
From all the radiation on her phone.
Oh, leaden eyes and eyelids!
Melania cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
She’s sold her soul and there is no to-morrow.            30

 

Away! away! or I will fly from thee,
Not charioted by Mike Pence and his tards,
But on the gormless wings of Poesy,
Though my dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,            35
And haply Queen Hill will take her throne,
Cluster’d around by all her starry-eyed cronies.
Here there are no rights,
Save what our old constitution has with its amendments abused
by gun-toting goons and religious phonies.            40

 

I cannot see Paul Ryan and his giant ears,
Nor what soft scrota hang inside his pants,
There, in embalmèd darkness, musky sweet
Wherewith unreasonable endless cant
The cretins, the crackers, and the macho go wild;            45
Whitely supreme (would be), grand and elephantine;
Teen miss universes cover’d up in fear;
Of a superannuated child,
Campaigning in gross prose, full of juicy lies,
He haunts the stage like Lurch on autumn eves.            50

 

Darkly I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Said to him, oh baby, in many a musèd rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it wise to die,            55
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such idiocy!
Still wouldst thou squawk, and I have ears in vain—
To thy high per diem become a sod.            60

 

Thou wast born for this crap, jingoist Bird!
No hungry Sarah Palins tread thee down;
The screech I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path            65
Through the sad heart of Hillary, when, sick for power,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that ofttimes hath
Charm’d magic pipelines, opening on the tower
That Trump built, in gentrified cities forlorn.            70

 

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to Bernie Sanders!
Adieu! the fancy always cheat so well
As Trump is famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! his tiny orange hands            75
Roving near pudendas, over the frozen teen,
And up her little hill-sides; and now they’re buried deep
In the national psyche:
Was it a nightmare, or a waking dream?
Soon is the election:—do I wake or sleep?            80

 

 

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