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David Lloyd


God how I’m sick of old men

flinging fistfuls of pocket change

with their profiles in high relief.

Sick of their megaphone mouths,

packed pogroms, frozen organs,

stuffed stadiums, nauseating mausoleums.

Sick of flag pins, blood ties, trophy watches,

palatial orgasms, private golf courses

sucking water from my eyes.

Sick of fist bumps on photoshopped chests,

truckloads of novichok,

the passing jab on Waterloo Bridge,

the drone blitz in my backyard reception.

Sick of motherlands and fatherlands.

Sick of lions’ tails swinging from cinched belts.

The aerosol breath. The rabid grandfatherliness.

The dirty hands scrubbed skinless.

The fingers mining my veins, rifling my pockets.

The pile fabric on their heads.

The self-portraits like smudged mirrors hung

in disinfected staterooms,

in deloused bedrooms of donors,

always stiff, always declaring,

always in the eye

of the nuclear hurricane.

Sick of Amazon warehouses

of bagged and labeled body parts

fed-ex’d around the globe.

Sick of filed-off fingerprints,

off-shore ghosts, botoxed brains,

sun-drenched appetites, fairytale accounts

in real banks.

Sick of mistresses gagged

and bulldozed into unmarked graves.

Sick of bleached smiles and knockoff frowns,

campaigning bellies, insect instincts.

The swarming mustaches, bespoke suits,

camouflaged incisors, embalmed lips,

bronze-aged skin, razor-edged toenails, perfumed ears.

The bodyguards at always-attention,

handcuffed to steel doors,

so washed, so desperate to take your bullet.

The desks empty as a food desert,

inlaid with jawbones of journalists.

No more crawling carpets.

No more infected blankets gifted

to the homeless. No more diamond parachutes.

No more bonesaws. No more invasive cigars.

Must I continue?

Crown jewels? Crystal flutes topped-up with tears?

Scrofulous lobby statuary? Golden escalators?

Niggling dignity? Needy jowls? Skull necklaces.