imperial desire (or why won’t donald die)



all of his orgasms
were made of blood

he spoke of economies
of ecstacy, preservation, and
saving the world from doom
with a sour mouth
that feasted
on the death of powers
which he absorbed into himself
and transmuted into pleasure

tongue strokes
from the mouth of a viper
imputing venom
translucent and sticky
kneaded out in ecstacy

distant touches
reaching into rooms
to take bodies against their will
stalked with incomparable passion

dominance played out
in the intimacy of trust
and bindings made of money

he swole himself
to intensify the sting
and relished in their pain

and when the bleeding ceased
all that was left
of governor
and governed
was smallness
the not enough
the dried up brown
which had crackled
like mud on a shoe

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