The King

The King

Tell me something new about the skull

smelling up our house on the swamp.

Can he screw every black man walking the earth?

Can he screw every vulnerable child fighting his war?

His friend with Titanic eyes dreams of leather whips,

strong hemp rope, and hand rolled cigars.  He fancies

himself an otolaryngologist

with the sweet smells of strange fruit lulling him

into the dark halls of insanity.

Such is the Fascist auto pleasuring

his rocket of autocracy.