“My son’s a high quality person.”

“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

and blinks

thinking about

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

He thinks

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.

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