Flash Epistle Number Five


I don’t like to write about Donald Trump. For one thing, it is difficult. His ideas are as slippery as the thighs of a rich, Republican wife who has just finished fucking her limo driver before he whisks her away to a family values rally. Or maybe they aren’t ideas at all, just the results of neurons firing randomly, creating aphasic nonsense, jumbled word salad drenched in semen dressing. That image is enough to put anyone off writing about him. I’d rather stick to more wholesome subjects like emesis or concentration camps. Not to worry. Professional pundits will take up the slack. They will write about anything. I gladly defer to their chronic logorrhea. What goes down comes back up. No need for me to hurl over a demented fat man. There are more pleasant ways to purge political detritus. I’d rather write poems to the void. The void is more likely to answer intelligently.

Honorary Schizophrenic. Recent refugee. Displaced person. Old white male. Confidant of cassowaries.

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