Childhood Terrors Set Me Up For Trump
In my dream I ride a horse along a beach,
a nubile young woman clinging tight to me.
As we edge around the cliffs, a structure
becomes ever clearer through the haze,
reaching through the sands to the heavens;
triumphant, predominant, impotent.
“You maniacs! You blew it up!
God damn you! God damn you all to hell!”
Back at the archaeologist’s camp, Dr Zaius
stares out across the rolling waves
to the horizon, and brushes his hair forward.
Tim Wells is made of reggae, lager top, pie and mash, and Leyton Orient FC. His latest collection is Everything Crash (Penned In The Margins, 2015) and he runs the Stand Up And Spit archive of ranting poetry.