Czar Trumpo’s tiny hands try to receive
the harlot raindrops: gold as Aspen leaves
in Fall, they flood his Rushmore of a face –
lachrymal simulacra with a tannic trace.
As Danae once was quickened by that gold
coined by Old Thunder’s testes, so The Donald
takes omens as critiques, but merely lounges:
soon Heaven itself shall know the future must be orange!
W.N. Herbert is just a placeholder to keep the momentum going while you send in your poems. Like most of Trump’s cabinet, he has no qualifications whatever to represent this Pantisocratic constituency, and is clearly exploiting his privileged position as co-editor of New Boots and Pantisocracies to get this far, so for God’s sake hurry up before it all goes to his head.