He stands there looking like rubble with ambition and talks of obliteration,

annihilation, deportation, assimilation whilst his own house is crumbling.

Drawing a blueprint for a monster that has already been torn apart by the wind.

Is there are manual for becoming whole?

Did a wave ever hit you? Did you find a sunken ship?

Did you find page 7 of the instructions of how to build a white house?

A hole. Page 7 was a blueprint for a hole. You’ll need a hole. It’s the only way that you’ll fit anything in.

Some thermodynamics to stop it scattering in the wind.

The same wind dries a child’s tear.

He is crying for his mother.

He is softer than Trump and his speech.

Yet aren’t we all just spaces held together

By the act of holding?

How are all these lies are holding up?

The orphan is an enemy because we say they are an enemy and we kill our enemy and we help our enemy and we help and kill. Help and kill

A quest. A conquest.

He stands there looking like a teacup in a storm.

Looking like biscuits flavoured with blood. It’s almost Catholic without the passion.

He talks of war as a little journey. It’s a lovely little outing. Holding hands amongst the bunker bombs.

Death is just the seasoning.

A B52 is as beautiful as a bomb.

A beautiful massacre in hyper colour

It’s the colour of the massacre that makes it holy

‘We’ll bomb them back to the stone age which is where they belong.

We are helping them.’ Trump says of Iran.

If only men like Trump could be brought back to a time before they had weapons for teeth.

We can’t let the uncivilised world win.