Friday, 9 December 2016


Yankee say, “Go home, fellas, nothing to see here,”
Over the braying Bernardistas chanting in Central Park
Under a moon alarmingly close to our timorous,
Fragile planetoid chockablock with untapped carbon.

Unless you hug a polar bear, you can’t imagine the savagery
Constant evisceration of the topsoil impinges on
Kindred spirits who host other religions in their most
Intimate moments, desert hearts inscribed in left-leaning texts.

Now, it’s not a question of authority. You have it,
Great satchel-jowl sunset-tinged plutocrat, behold!
Down to the last dime and demagogue, you go, Sam!
Intimacy isn’t something you cultivate. No, you

Commercialize it — make it part of the go-home message.
Kentucky has its jars too, Tennessee, auburn and succulent.
We drink, on your behalf, Manhattans in Manhattan.
Absent absinthe and arak, we tumble through this charred swill

Down for the last drop too soon to be witnessed. Come with.

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