ldinlove

[ldinlove]

Ape In The Oval Office: Poems and Allegories about The Great Orange Menace and his zookeepers.

[ldinlove]

[ldinlove]

[ldinlove]

The Trump Bandwagon

Under a leaden sky, a caravan slows to a stop on the outskirts of the town. Near the front, a wagon bearing a cage creaks laboriously under a heavy load. Cribbed behind its bars lays a shifting pallid mass, it’s mid-section spilling loosely over a crudely fashioned diaper. The freak show has arrived and the thing in the cage believes it is the star. It giggles in anticipation; ready for the bacchanal. The shirtless Ringmaster sits astride a horse, smirking slyly as he eyeballs his surroundings. He gazes toward the village and smells the air. The stench of hate and ignorance have summoned the carnival, ensuring an excellent turnout. The venal will come, selling their souls at the gate as they wait for their turn on the shuddering machine called The Trump Bandwagon. Thralls, once seduced by the illusion, hastily assemble the rickety contraption. A fresh coat of crimson paint conceals the decay that is consuming the structure. The facade of lights and music hide a leviathan hungry for the fearful, the angry, and the foolish. The attraction opens, spilling the multitude into the labyrinth. Souls already lost fill the void that has been carefully prepared for them. Carnival barkers beckon the gullible from darkened alleyways; offering spells for fortune and power. Fairgoers assemble to gawk in loathing and fascination at the main attraction. Others prepare to board the relic for their ride to hell. The Trump Bandwagon slowly lurches to life. Behind a curtain The Ringmaster manipulates the ancient levers that work the apparatus, switching tracks and routing cars into the dark – never to be seen again. Under the big top, co-conspirators toss MAGA hats into the crowd as fights erupt in the greedy frenzy for favor. The unenlightened crush forward as the fairway and byways fill beyond capacity. A spark from a careless cigarette ignites the bedding in the beast’s cage. The fire quickly spreads as it consumes the straw and the reckoning begins. In town, the alarm sounds and those who have not fallen under the spell come. Bucket brigades arrive to push back against the propaganda that feeds the heat and smoke. Sensing failure, The Ringmaster flees into the night, sparks erupting from the abandoned control panel. He seeks shelter in the shadows, burying his secrets along the way. Shielding his eyes and skin from the painful sear of exposure, he will wait. His creation begins to buckle; mirrors shattering under the heat of scrutiny. It’s visage red in the glow of the fire, eyes black as pitch, the diapered troll rocks back and forth violently as it’s unholy cradle begins to char, then crack. Enveloped in flame, the sickly king-who-would-be drops into oblivion as its throne collapses in a shower of sparks and putrid smog. The fleeing assemblage find only dead ends, piling onto one another in panic. Walls close in, forcing the guilty to face their folly as their cries for leniency die inside the roar and the heat. Dawn breaks as the last of the embers cool; steam rising from the black and oily mass that was the Trump. Survivors solemnly file past a charred sign laying in the ashes. The burned paint of the marquee has peeled back revealing words written in Cyrillic: Поразить Путина – The Putin Bandwagon