A Presidential Epigram
- after Mandelstam
we live without feeling
the border between us
and our feet do not touch the ground
listen -
our voices are accent-less
and the echo of money
is like the sound of rigging in the wind
the talk of any small-town is the Áras
and the one who chuckles
shall he ascend -
his bloodied hands unseen
boots put away
worms rising
his words are like anchors
circled by snivelling and mewling henchmen
he flings decrees like horseshoes -
you get it in the balls
the temple
between the eyes
like poisoned berries
he spits each execution from his mouth
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