Under Milk Donald:

To begin at the beginning...  

In the bloated, bilious gut of America’s decaying dream, where the sun rises gold but the minds stay leaden, let us peer beneath the red-cap dawn and whisper through the crumbling drywall of a country that once promised liberty and now delivers lies. 

In the dead-eyed diners and meth-streaked strip malls of MAGA-land, Kentucky black as coal, the faithful stir: 

God-fearing, gun-clutching, glory-humping, cousin-fucking   

Harking to a past that never was. Listen. You can hear them wheezing awake in truck-stop beds and recliners stained with Bud Light and defeat, hearts heavy with grievance, heads light with nonsense. They rise not with hope, but with hatred, spoon-fed by Fox and frothing radio ghouls. 

And there, centre stage like a sunburnt blimp in a circus of the damned, lumbers Donald the Lie, the satsuma-streaked Antichrist of Atlantic City, the conman deity of Mar-a-Lago, bloated and bleating.  A cholesterol-stuffed demagogue with a mouth full of prevarication and a wallet full of stolen dreams.  He preens, he grunts, he grins:  a tattered mime with blood on his cuffs, a messiah of mutton-headed masses. 

See him now, waddling through the smoke and mirrors of his own delusions, hailed by the tinfoil faithful: the Q-cultists and Proud Boys, the flag-humpers and flat-Earthers, the raptured and the rabid.  They chant his name like it’s holy writ, though the only scripture he knows is the Art of the Grift. 

And still they come, from trailer park and pew, from factory ruin and Facebook feed, shuffling like zombies with slogans in place of souls.  

• Build the wall, they rasp. 
• Stop the steal, they moan. 
• And the wind carries their whines across the poisoned plains of America’s id. 

This is not a town. It is a tantrum. This is not a movement. It is a mass hallucination. This is not patriotism. It is pantomime fascism in denim, polyester and piss-stained boots. 

Land of the Free is it? 

So let us begin again, if we must: in this dismal dawn of stolen truths and Fox-fed fear, where the king is naked and the crowd is blind, and the flag is just a rag to wrap the lies in. 

Why? You say? 

OK, fair enough - let us begin at the beginning: but this time, let’s not look away. 

And the towns they come from, oh, the names ring like rusted bells: Broken Arrow, Hogjaw, Jesus Flats, Liberty Falls, where there’s no liberty and nothing falls except the sky.  Strip-light settlements along highways lined with shuttered bargain stores and oil-leaking Chevys, where the Civil War never ended.  In these sad, sagging places, mammas fry bacon and bile, and daddies drink breakfast from a can. Children learn their history from memes and their science from YouTube cranks.  It’s Sunday every day and Jesus always votes Republican, even when he's hanging from a copper painted plastic cross made in China. The voices rise. 

Here comes Big Earl, belly like a drum-skin of Bud and beef, Confederate flag tattooed where his neck once was.  He believes Trump is chosen: not by voters, but by God himself, deftly disguised as a bankrupt gameshow host.  There’s Cindy-Lou, tanned like leather and furious with feminism, who believes Hillary runs a satanic crèche in a pizza parlour. She’s got an AR-15 and a Facebook page full of Jesus, flags, and frogs.  And in the trailer parks and cul-de-sacs they polish their delusions like pickup trucks. They think the Deep State is hiding in their thermostats. They thought COVID was a hoax until it put Grandma in the ground, and even then it was probably Soros, or drag queens, or Satan in a mask. 

Meanwhile, Donald the Lie: their porcine prophet, yawns beneath a spray-on tan and dreams of ratings and retribution.   He sees the world as a mirror, and in it only himself.  A man with all the depth of a puddle and the morals of a pissed-up snake oil preacher.  Hair like dying straw, eyes like microwaved marbles, trousers clinging on for dear life.  He is the patron saint of pathological narcissists, the avatar of every bigot who wanted permission to be vile. He feeds them poison and calls it patriotism.  He offers them enemies instead of answers.  Mexicans.  Muslims.  Marxists.  Masks.   He speaks in slogans, not sentences, and they cheer like Pavlov’s dogs at every sniff of spite.  And the lies grow fat and fertile, like weeds in concrete:  voter fraud, witch hunts, deep state coups.  He lost, but he didn’t.  He won, but they stole it.   Democracy is dead unless he says otherwise.  And the mob? oh the mob: thick-necked, wide-eyed, high on hate, marches for their man, the golden calf in a cheap red tie.  And so he won again. 

So for whom the bells toll? for they toll not for freedom, but for farce.  And the dawn is not golden, but gangrenous.  And the town called MAGA?  built on bullshit, fed on fear, hums with the buzzing static of a dying empire wrapped in bunting. 

And still he tweets.
And still they kneel.

And still the carnival crawls on.  Welcome, dear reader, to the theatre of the absurd, where democracy is on fire and the crowd is roasting marshmallows.  Now see them gather under the sagging tents of their delusion, beer-bellied prophets and peroxide priestesses of the American Apocalypse.  At county fairs and parking-lot rallies, where the speakers screech like banshees and the flags wave like desperate hands from a drowning ship.  They chant 'U-S-A' as if saying it louder might make it mean something again.  They wear crosses round their necks and hate in their hearts, calling themselves Christians while baying for blood. 

There’s old Chuck: Vietnam vet turned Facebook general, who thinks Antifa is hiding in school buses.  He hasn’t read a book since Nixon and still thinks the Earth is 6,000 years old, just like Alex Jones told told him.  And there's Becky with her God-fearing eyes and Glock filled handbag, who’s convinced her suburban school board is run by communist pedophiles in drag. 

And in the pulpit of their pain stands the Mandarin Muppet, messianic meat puppet of the moronic masses.  He speaks in tongues, in fragments, in bloated boasts and backfired threats, each sentence a crime against grammar and decency.  But they understand him... every word: not with their minds, but with their malice.  He speaks their hatred fluently.  They don’t love him because he tells the truth.  They love him because he tells their truth:  their virgin drunk on MD20-20 and clumsily fingered in the back of a pick up truck kind of truth:  the foul, festering ooze at the bottom of the American soul.  He is the mirror in which they see their ugliest selves: not with shame, but with pride.  He is the scream they never dared scream, now given a face and a podium and a plane with his name on it. And still they come.  From Walmart wastelands and OxyContin hollows, from faded suburbs and forgotten farms.  The angry, the frightened, the proud and the poisoned.

Lured by the circus, loyal to the snake. They believe he’s rich, so he must be right. They believe he’s cruel, so he must be strong.  They believe he’s persecuted, so he must be chosen.  And what of truth?  Truth is a liberal plot. Truth is fake news.  Truth is whatever the big man says before tea time. 

So round and round the carousel goes. The flags flutter.  The chants rise.  The bile boils. And in the rot-soft belly of the world’s richest nation, a movement marches backwards, waving torches and TikToks, led by a man who couldn’t spell ‘constitution’ if you gave him the first twelve letters. 

This is not politics  

This is a séance for the Confederacy, a revivalist tent of rage and nostalgia, hosted by a bankrupt Caesar in golf shoes. 

And as night falls again on this twisted fairground, and the stars blink out one by one over a land too dumb to die with dignity, the carnival carries on. Groaning, grinning, grifting, grim. And the voice of the people, once noble, once true, is now just a burp from the belly of a beast that feeds on flags, fear, and fast food. And still, he stands.

And still, they cheer.

And still, the lights flicker on in America’s haunted house.  And so the carnival limps on, through cornfield and clapboard, through suburb and swamp, dragging behind it the broken bones of a republic that once dreamed in syllables of liberty but now wheezes through the plastic grin of a Halloween gameshow ghoul. 

Each day dawns dimmer, not with hope but with hangover, the long, throbbing migraine of a nation drunk on grievance and ground beef.  See the GOP Evangelist: Evans the Deceiver?  It's God you want is it? he preachers panting at his feet, hands on hearts, hands in pockets.  Fire and Brimstone.

Millionaire megachurch men who'd crucify Christ again if he showed up brown and barefoot.  They bless the fraud in tongues of flame, baptise his bankruptcy in holy oil, sell salvation in exchange for votes and vengeance. The Supreme Court kneels now too: robed relics with dead eyes and donor strings, undoing a century of rights while mouthing pieties about tradition, as if segregation were a sacrament.  Jane Roe lies bleeding in a ditch and Clarence Thomas hums the national anthem between bites of billionaire caviar. 

• Congress? A mausoleum.
  The Democrats mumble about norms while Rome burns, and the Republicans giggle in the smoke, stuffing liberty into a shredder powered by fossil fuel and fury.

And here comes the base again:  bearded, be-flagged, and blisteringly wrong. Dragging folding chairs and folding minds,  ready for another revival beneath the sagging bunting of delusion. 

• They don’t want policy. They want payback.
• They don’t want jobs. They want someone to blame.
• They don’t want government: They want a god, as long as he’s white, rich, rude, and promises to kick someone lower than them.

And Donald the Lie?  the swollen totem of their tantrum gives them just that. Not a future, but a fight.  Not a plan, but a punchline.  Not a nation, but a nightmare repackaged as nostalgia. He is their golden calf - pissed on by history and still they kneel. They carve his lies into their foreheads and call it freedom.  They swallow his bile and call it truth.

They stormed their own Capitol and call it patriotism.  So let the curtain rise on this theatre of fascist farce.  Let the music play off-key and off-balance. Let the banners wave above the corpse of democracy.  And when the world asks how it died don’t blame the tyrant.  Blame the crowd that begged for one. 

And into this sickened symphony of spite marches ICE: not the kind in your drink, but the kind in your darkest nightmares, in your doors, in your streets, in your children’s screams.  Immigration and Customs Enforcement, they call it but there’s nothing custom about the cruelty,  and the only thing they’re enforcing is fear. Steel-jawed and dead-eyed, they prowl in unmarked vans, snatching brown mothers at bus stops, tearing toddlers from breast and blanket while quoting the Constitution in broken English. They raid like Revenants, midnight knocks and morning tears, boots on kitchen floors still sticky with syrup and school shoes. They split families like firewood, stuffing the pieces into chain-link cages draped in the Stars and Stripes. The lights stay on 24 hours a day, because even sleep is too good for the undeserving. 

From his golden bog in Mar-a-Lago, Donald watches it all with a half-lidded grin, with one hand on the Diet Coke button, the other fist-pumping the cruelty.
“They’re not sending their best!”, he bellows,
and ICE listens like dogs waiting for a treat.  Ready to pounce, ready to prove their place in his pantheon of pitiless goons. 

And the base? Oh, they cheer.  They cheer the misery like it’s a monster truck rally,
wave flags at busloads of sobbing children, scream build the wall at women in labour, as if cruelty were a sacrament, as if empathy were treason. ICE doesn’t patrol the hedge-fund enclaves, doesn’t check the visas of trophy wives in gated mansions, doesn’t ask how Melania got here.  It only kicks down the doors of dishwashers and delivery drivers, only hunts the poor, the brown, the voiceless,
because that’s what this movement feeds on: not truth, not justice, but suffering served warm and televised. 

• And still the Trump cult prays.  
• To a wall that never got built.  
• To a nation that never was.  
• To a god who looks suspiciously like a bloated golf cheat with a spray tan and a string of felonies.

This is not security. This is not order.  This is performance fascism with a beer gut and an assault rifle, and ICE is its stagehand:  lugging bodies and wreckage off-scene while the show rolls on, to rapturous applause from the wilfully wicked. 

So let the land of the free chant louder, as it readily and with fervour builds its detention camps with Christian prayers and Chinese steel.  Let the MAGA masses wave their flags while the Constitution is fed through a shredder at ICE headquarters.  And when the children of those cages grow, if they grow,  they will speak of America not with envy, but with spit.  Not as beacon, but as beast.  And they will remember the country that called itself great while it locked babies in cages and sang the anthem over the sound of their cries. 

And now, four your delight: out of the festering backwater of this MAGA fever swamp slithers another glad-handing ghoul: J.D. Vance:  Jones the Bumpkin - the hillbilly Hemingway turned political hand puppet, a ventriloquist dummy fisted by the felon.  Harvard-groomed and venture-capital blessed.  Once a critic, now a convert; once a man with reservations, now a mutt on a short, gold-plated leash.  He wrote his book like a eulogy and now campaigns like an undertaker, hawking dignity for a Senate seat and a shot of relevance at the feet of the Orange Caligula. Vance, with his fake folksy baritone and $200 haircut, telling the rustbelt wreckage he’s one of them when he’s about as Appalachian as avocado toast.  His soul sold quicker than his Netflix rights, and now he stumps the stage with the Donald, nodding along like a dashboard Jesus bobblehead while the big man bellows about rigged elections, immigrant invasions, and imaginary wars on Christmas. He’s the intellectual face of the inarticulate mob, the 'thinker' for  the hard of thinking, for people who think slogans count as scripture, the hillbilly whisperer with a hedge fund résumé and a spine made of Wensleydale. 

He stands beside the Donald now, eyes dead with calculation, as if willing the messiah’s shadow to make him real.  But he’s not a populist. He’s a parasite.  He’s not rising. He’s rotting upwards.  The Ivy League rat in a red state skin, hollowed out and filled with talking points scripted by billionaires and whispered by fascists in suit jackets. 

And then there’s Pete Hegseth:  the Fox News frat boy in permanent midlife cosplay, a walking GI Joe figurine with all the depth of a wet beer mat and the moral compass of a malfunctioning gaslight.  He struts across the TV screen like he’s storming Normandy, only his war was fought in a studio with makeup on and his enemies were facts.  Pete the Dick, the Ivy League patriot who dodged nuance like he dodged intellectual honesty, sells nationalism like it’s protein powder, puffing out his chest for the flag while emptying his skull for the cause.  He wraps himself in camouflage and Christ, preaching a kind of testosterone gospel to men who think empathy is a liberal hoax and foreign policy should be written in crayon. He’s not a pundit, he’s a lifestyle ad for the insecure: a baritone voice for the broken, a smile for the stupid, and a cheerleader for the slow death of American thought. 

Ah, enter stage far right Marco Rubio: the Miami Vice of politics, a slick-talking suit with the charisma of a damp paper towel and the conviction of a weather vane in a hurricane.  He’s the plastic Floridian export, polished to a blinding sheen but hollow underneath, forever spinning like a cheap carnival prize between whatever winds of power blow strongest.  Rubio’s the kind of snake oil salesman who memorises your fears and sells you back your own self-loathing with a smile too wide to be trusted, all while pretending to care about the Latino vote like it’s a pet project, not a demographic. He parrots conservative pieties with the enthusiasm of a man whose soul committed suicide in 2010, chasing presidential dreams on borrowed time and Botox. Rubio’s the human embodiment of a Florida man headline: flashy, forgettable, and inevitably crashing spectacularly, leaving the rest of us to clean up the mess with nothing but a soggy mojito and a prayer. 

And Karoline Leavitt: the human blueprint for ambition without shame, a sparkle-toothed Instagram filter in human form, all gloss and no guts, hustling her way through politics like it’s a VIP nightclub where loyalty’s just another hashtag. She talks fast and smiles faster, peddling ambition dressed up as authenticity, but underneath that glossy veneer is little more than a corporate PR stunt with a megaphone.  Karoline’s the kind of power player who knows every angle, every angle’s angle, but can’t quite figure out if she’s playing the game or just a pawn in someone else’s dirty playbook.  She’s the polished poster child for the new breed of conservative grifters: young and hungry to say anything, no matter how shallow or toxic, if it gets her one step closer to the microphone.  When she's back in the trailer her self-awareness cries itself to sleep at night.  In a world of broken promises and bulldozed truths, she’s less a leader and more a lightning rod for all the worst parts of a party that’s given up on decency. 

So here they are:  Donald the Liar: the reality TV Mussolini;  Vance, the bookish bootlicker; Hegseth, the Fox that should be hunted, Rubio, a polished turd and Leavitt, out of her depth in a paddling pool.  All rangers in the Dunning Kruger National Park:   Five crack-whores of the apocalypse.  Five flavours of rot, served cold on a platter of plastic patriotism. They’re not here to fix America. They’re here to finish it. To loot the last copper penny from the corpse, to ride the angry mob into the dust, to build a new feudalism,

• Where truth is treason and cruelty is king. And still the crowd roars.
• Still the red hats rise.
• Still the nation chokes on its own exceptionalism, too drunk on grievance to taste the ash in its mouth. 
• This is not revival.  This is requiem. 
• And the band plays on.  Out of time and out of tune.

And lo, what light from yonder window breaks? hovering at the edge of the circus, like an orphan with his nose pressed to the window in the snow, twitching in the spotlight like a moth that’s licked a battery comes Elon.  Elon the Mad.  The Silicon Svengali.  The emerald mine edgelord with a God complex and a grammar problem, now reduced to a glitching billionaire meme-goblin on the brink of a pharmaceutical nosedive.  Once he sold us Mars and self-driving dreams; now he’s just one Adderall tantrum away from lives-treaming his own nervous breakdown from the front seat of a Cybertruck that still can’t park itself.   He’s tweeting at 3am in Klingon, arguing with fourteen-year-old incels, firing staff by emoji, and looking like a man who’s smelled too many of his own farts and started to believe they were the breath of genius.  He is no longer the prophet of progress: he’s the Pierrot of panic, of paranoia, of privilege without poise, an insecure billionaire cosplaying as Tony Stark.

While the stock prices whimper like a beaten Terrier behind him.  Once a man who could shift markets with a whisper, now a half-lit firework sputtering on X, banned in half the EU and worshipped by tech-bros who think empathy is a software bug.  And there he stands now: sniffing, blinking, swaying slightly on his heels, jaw clenched like a vice of white powder and fragile ego, surrounded by yes-men and MAGA freaks who call him a free speech saviour as he blocks critics like a Victorian hysteric seeing ankles.  He buys platforms not to build, but to burn.  He platforms fascists, flat-Earthers, crypto hucksters, and cartoon frogs, screaming 'censorship!'  Every time someone dares to question why the richest man on earth tweets like a sixth form dropout with wankers cramp after twelve cans of Red Bull and a break-up, he tweets like his life depends on it.  For a while he dined with Trump, like two Bond villains in discount suits, talking population collapse and gender panic in between mouthfuls of steak and self-importance.  

• They flatter each other’s delusions: 
• Trump wants a rocket to Jupiter,
• Elon wants a coronation in Florida.
• Both want to be emperor of ash heaps.

And underneath it all, the meltdown simmers, in the pupils too wide, the laughter too sharp, the posts too unhinged to be strategic. This is no longer a tech CEO. This is a man unspooling in real-time, live on stage at the collapse of an empire, trading serotonin for serotonin investors, marching with the fascists not out of loyalty but because the cool kids on Reddit dared to laugh at his memes.  He is the patron saint of boys who never grew up, the fat boy in the Lord of the flies, the lost boy, king of the keyboard warriors, preacher of the Pay-to-Play apocalypse. And as he babbles about neura-linked utopias while cities drown and forests burn, he fails to see that history will remember him not as Da Vinci reborn, but as Nero with a Tesla flamethrower, grinning, snorting, tweeting, while the world goes up in smoke. And the mob?

• They cheer.
• Because in the land of the broken, the loudest lunatic still gets the mic.

Well now: hush your mouth and lean in, ‘cause here comes the good ol’ boy gospel, straight outta meth-cooked, coal-choked, cousin-kissin’ MAGA Kentucky, where the Bible’s thick, the teeth are optional, and the flag flies higher than the literacy rate. 

Ain’t nothin’ like the dawn in these parts, when the rooster crows on a roofless trailer, and the kids piss barefoot in red clay ‘cause the water got poisoned by the same company owned by the man Daddy votes for every damn time. And right there, sittin’ cross-legged on a busted lawn chair made of duct tape and denial, is Cletus: eyes glued to the screen of his cracked Samsung Galaxy, sweat-slick MAGA cap welded to his skull like a birthmark from God, produced in a factory in China by children that has suicide nets below the upper floor windows. He’s scrollin’ X (used to be Twitter, but that commie bird died), and up pops Elon, lookin’ like a malfunctionin’ Spacex rocket, fizzing and about to involuntarily disassemble with a pharmacy in his bloodstream. “Thass mah boy,” Cletus wheezes through three remaining teeth and a lungful of vape-smoke. “Real genius, that feller.  Real jobs creator.  Built himself an electric car outta autism and ‘Merican know-how.”  

Only it ain’t made in America, and it don’t really work, but Cletus don’t care, ‘cause Elon hates trans people and talks like he read Atlas Shrugged once and never got over it. 

And there Elon is, tweakin’ in real time, eyes bugged out like a possum hit with jumper cables, postin’ about free speech from a bunker filled with Nazi trolls, crypto scammers, and soyless carnivore influencers who haven’t seen a vegetable since 2003. 

There's deep in it now, boyo.  Deep in the swamp juice. Rantin’ about population collapse while five kids he don’t talk to play Minecraft in a house staffed by nannies and despair.  Bustin’ out tweets ‘bout Mars colonisation while he can't even colonise a software update.  But to Cletus and the cousin-wives and Junior in the back with a raccoon on his shoulder?  Elon is Jesus with a laptop. They love him like they love boiled meat and climate denial.  Because he owns the libs.  And that’s all that matters.  Don’t matter if he’s off his nut and one mushroom microdose away from makin’ a racial slur into a rocket logo: he fights the Deep State, and that’s all the gospel they need. 

And out here in MAGA Kentucky, truth ain't measured in facts, it's measured in volume and victimhood. If you shout it loud and look real pissed off, it must be true. And Elon, he shouts alright, bout AI, bout pronouns, bout 'woke mind virus' whatever that means to a man who thinks 'empathy' is a hardware defect. 

So Cletus finishes his Mountain Dew vodka cocktail, scratches something fungal on his thigh, and blesses his phone like it was the Ark of the Covenant. "Elon gone save us from them Democrats," he drawls, as the trailer tips slightly in the wind and the dog outside humps a Confederate flag. 

And above it all, in a sky hazy with church fire smoke and burnt-off brain cells, Donald the Lie grins like a constipated jack-o'-lantern, Vance polishes his boots with poor people’s hope, Hegseth tries to figure out how the fuck he ended up between a septic tank and a gas station Bible tent.  It ain’t politics no more, it’s snake-handlin’ fascism.

And the snakes? They’re in charge. And one day: mark it down on your moonshine-stained calendar, in between possum huntin’ and QAnon prayer circle.  A reckoning is it? 

My friends, the cross might burn but there is light at the end of the chapel...

Donald The Lie, forty-fifth and forty-seventh president and full-time charlatan, one evening, will crawl into his golf-cart-shaped deathbed in a room made of gold, cheeseburger wrappers, and unfiled indictments, and he just… won’t wake up. 

No fanfare. No martyrdom.

Just a final snort, a wheeze, a gurgle ... and... silence.

Not the silence of dignity, but the silence of flatulence and failed prophecy. 

Denied the noose, denied the courtroom reckoning, denied the cold stone justice of history’s hangman,  because Death, the Reaper, that old bone-fingered revolutionary, swoops low, takes one look at that waxen, Wotsit-stained corpse
and thinks: "Nah ... let Hell sort this one out" 

No thunderclap, no final rally, no Q-drops from the afterlife. Just a wheezing man with a phone in one hand and a half-eaten Filet-O-Fish in the other, gasping out one last half-finished post:
“COVFEFE…” 

Of course his disciples will cry foul.  “Deep State killed him with a space laser!” they’ll wail. from trailer parks to Mar-a-Lago gift shops, but the truth is simpler, sadder, smaller, the Big Man went out like a fart in a wind tunnel, sweating bronzer and clutching at eternity with ketchup-stained claws. There’ll be no saints to carry him.  Only pallbearers with NDAs and fake tans, carting his bloated legacy down the gilded escalator to oblivion.  

And still the MAGA crowd will wait outside the mausoleum shaped like a steakhouse, mumbling prayers to a bloated demigod who never knew their names, let alone their pain. They’ll carve his face into a mountain of lies. They’ll print his sermons on t-shirts and weapon parts.  They’ll baptise their babies in Big Mac sauce and claim his tomb weeps tears of Diet Coke. 

But in the end, the wind will blow, and history will laugh.

Because this emperor wore no clothes, just a red tie and a raging case of narcissistic rot.  And when the worms get to work on that bloated orange carcass, they won’t stop to ask about poll numbers or Supreme Court picks. They’ll just chew through the spray tan and the sin, and shit out truth. 

Because that’s all he ever was: a conman, a coward, a clump of cholesterol in the body politic, finally flushed by time, by age and by the Reaper’s gentle whoosh
as he whispers softly:

“You don’t even get the rope, Donnie. You’re not worth the trouble”. 

And after the Donald, after the golden lard-king has wheezed his last, after the breathless bluster has been bagged and buried beneath a mausoleum shaped like a golf tee and lined with debt the world will stir like a hangover-ed dog, blinking
in the sudden soft hush where once there was thunder. The flags will droop, limp and disoriented, tired of being waved by the witless.

• The bunting will rot on picket fences in Alabama.
• The chants once blood-hot in stadiums of sweat and rage

will stammer, then sputter, then cease, like a dodgy lawnmower long out of petrol and purpose. And across the pancake-flat plains of flyover despair, in cul-de-sacs and gas stations and God’s forgotten theme parks, there will be silence thick and twitching as the cultists stare at their altars made of Trump Steaks and broken dreams, waiting for the second coming that never comes. 

• The air will clear.
  The shouting will soften.
  And the grifters will scatter, like roaches at the flick of a light switch
  JD Vance to his hedge fund,
  Hegseth back to his mirror, Rubio to his dressing up box; and 
  Karoline to the influencer gulag of the irrelevant.

The children will ask,
“Was he real?”
And the elders will blink into their Bud Lights and mutter,
“We thought so. For a time. God help us, we thought so.” And the world will not weep.
It will cough, clear its throat,
stretch its limbs like a prisoner released from two terms of neon nightmare and cholesterol prophecy,
and begin again. A little bruised.
A little wiser.
And with one less orange poltergeist howling from the top of a gold-plated toilet,
demanding fealty,
demanding walls,
demanding…
more. 

• No statues will be raised.
  Just caution signs,
  in the dusty corners of history.
  a Halloween joke that lasted too long.

Time passes. Listen. Time passes.
Come closer now.
Only you can hear the gold-leaf towers slumping in the fog of forgotten deals and silent indictments.
Only you can see, in the boarded-up bedrooms, the long-red ties curled like dead serpents on gilt dressers, the cold hamburgers congealed on bone-china plates, the flickering screens still playing his face to no one.
Only you can hear and see, behind the shut eyelids of the bankrupt messiah,
the rustle of non-disclosure, the march of lawyers, the weeping statues of spray-tanned saints, the casino chip prayers, the roar of crowds long gone to ash,
the echo of a thousand lies rehearsed to silence.
Only you can hear the fading fanfare, the last confetti fall in a draughty ballroom,
where the Constitution sighs beneath a broken chandelier
and the ghost of a nation turns over in its sleep.

And Donald the Lie? a floating footnote in the fecal flotsum on the fly-addled flushless backyard midden of history 

PROFOUND APOLOGIES AND DIOLCH TO THE LATE GREAT GENIUS THAT WAS DYLAN THOMAS 

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