“My son’s a high quality person,
And I applaud him.”
He tweets from a golden room
While trafficked angels
Pee suspended in fountains around him.
“He’s not the low quality people,
with their marches and welfare
canon fodder consumers,
who make fun of my hair!”
He empties his nose
upon a rose-colored monogrammed square of silk,
Orders a bath of asses milk
and ogles his portrait.
“My son’s qualities are terrific,
Just like his old man.”
He splurts at 3am,
because he cannot sleep again,
staring dry-eyed at his patch of moonlight on the tasteful red, white and blue
of the Presidential room.
His skin is itchy
The lotion they gave him dried out.
He chews the inside of his mouth
where to find a new lotion guy?
“My son is a high quality person,”
He tweets into the night,
As, to his delight,
the cables echo his name again.
I must be feeling nice
As he tries to turn up the corners of his mouth
but only manages to blink
He waits for the feeling of owning all the toys.
The feeling of finally winning
against the other boys.