Do you see him?
There he is,
Standing on the podium,
Like some sort of messiah
Sent to us from a dark God,
Who has finally tired
Of all of our bullshit.
Words come out of his mouth
And venture to regions unknown,
His every breath a blasphemy
Though they can't see it.
They want him,
And he wants them.
They wish to ascend together,
Righteous in their anger,
Frustrated with themselves
Though blaming others.
Let us bring out the scapegoats.
Place them on the altar,
And bathe the Donald in their blood.
He will give your children his blessing.
Give Trump your firstborn.
Let him place the cross on their forehead,
And then seal it with a kiss.
A woman is seized and brought forth.
The Donald looks at her as though she is raw hamburger.
"The child," he says, "I will taketh it."
"Give him the child," they say,
Chanting in unison,
American flag hats on their craniums,
Their hearts clutched in their swollen hands.
It would be so easy, she thinks,
To surrender her newborn
To this smug son of a bitch
Who says whatever they want to hear.
The Donald extends his hands,
His smile grows a thousand yards.
"What's the goddamn matter?" he asks.
Indeed, what is the matter?
Where does the source of this anger stem?
From what dark forest hath it originated,
And can we do anything but hurt with it?
The Donald says no, we cannot.
The Donald does not think much of us.
He knows that we don't listen,
That we care little about the substance of words,
That we eat what we are given,
As long as it is sticky-sweet.
And so she walks down from the stage,
Though they beat her and castigate her,
Insulting her sex and her tender child.
It doesn't matter: she knows.
She knows that no matter what he says,
She will not let him kiss her baby.
Demagogue, return to your prison,
Vanish from our screens,
Let us not destroy ourselves with our own fists.
You have promised us nothing,
But our own heads on stakes.
May you eat a stunner for all eternity,
And may that pelt on your head
Become festering and fetid.