You squeeze a few words in, Mr. President
before you let the punch fall
and burn
and soot to take over our brains
as if the game of thrones was already won
and mothers had given up on us.
A perfect little cocktail: punctual and
served with artificial colours
instagrammable frames and
filtered archetypes.
A master, a servant
the commander, the comrade.
Disposable liabilities and
shameful counterparts in a
sanctioned bundle of two for one,
two for two
two for five
two for none.
My job is to keep ordering pint after pint
and watch you, punch after punch
then come for a surprise, Mr. President,
can you see through all that beard and
masculine smell of sweat?
The scent of “the people,” the aroma of success
of dick-sizes and viagras
of whips and handcuffs
in the name of God
in the name of love
of a fetish for afterlife.
A satellite surprise,
I give you a pint with a punch
and when the thrones are worn down
and the town gets drunk again
the real game, Mr. President
is “who can dance the longest”
and this one
begins with a striptease.