Imagine there’s a painting
adorning the wall of some president’s
master bedroom. It hangs
beneath a mirrored ceiling where his wife
(lucky her) gets to watch his pumping arse
wobble like a pale hairy jelly.
Let’s say it sits above
a dozen nicotine silver wigs
on a perfect chesterfield dresser,
and maybe it gazes down,
in lurid grey and gold:
a grinning Adolf Hitler
riding a merry go round of charging
one leather glove tightly gripping the reigns,
the other waving at scores
of muscular blonde women
and heroic dead eyed men
with lantern jaws.
Let’s just say this now
and get it out in the open
before it’s too late.