Trump's Ties

          Trump's big tie (Photo from Esquire)


Trump’s the media’s waking wet dream.

He keeps the entire industry employed

showing blond bigwigs aren’t as big as they seem,

are not, as we learned from Sigmund Freud,

kind, considerate, and conscientious,

but rather lying, selfish, egocentric,

as well as compulsively licentious,

and, of course, above all narcissistic—

obsessively, pathologically so—

but also intellectually a cipher

with a mincing, corpulent torso,

a wannabe-blond bombshell like Pfeiffer.

Damn! He knows the size of his tie matters,

so he wears one as big as a clean-up batter’s.

                                Robert Forrey

Trump Links

“It’s not even O.K. to go golfing with the president, saying 

that it’s about showing respect for the office, not the man. 

Sorry, but when the office is held by someone trying to 

undermine the Constitution, doing anything that normalizes 

him and lends him respectability is a political act.”

                                                Paul Krugman

                    

                              1

If McIlroy golfing with  Trump was not 

an endorsement, then it was a cheap shot

by two con artists, Donald and Rory,

using the media to sell their story

by executing a clever chip shot.

A chip shot approaches the verdant scene—

meaning both the money and the green—

by lofting the ball, in a kind of soft sell,

Trump as Peter Pan, Rory as Tinker Bell,

cashing in like an ATM machine.

Trump’s a scurvy real estate brigand, 

born and raised in Queens, on Long Island, 

profiting from a life-long real estate scam,

making promises not worth a tinker’s damn,

smiling all the time while orange tanned.

With his torso twisting and his chin jutting,

Rory made his millions driving and putting,

a Catholic from Northern Ireland,

the United Kingdom’s no-man’s land,

where papists find it hard to find their footing.

His devoted dad worked hundred-hour weeks

cleaning toilets and fixing bathtub leaks

to finance the little shaver’s golf career,

while his mother delighted the little dear 

by buying Scottie Tam o’ Shanter batiks.

Donald and Rory make gifts to charity 

to maintain the illusion of parity 

between the strongman and the wuss,

between the rich and the rest of us

who don’t profit from their prosperity.  

Trump and McIlroy, the odd couple—

Presbyterian teachers, papist pupils,

sleights of hands in golf gloves

in a field of financial foxgloves

where their money quadruples.

                               2

In golf Trump’s such an inveterate cheater

that if he played his own mother he’d cheat her.

Even shanking, he ends up with the best lie,

and when challenged blusters like Captain Bligh,

not face to face but as a tweeter.

It’s really hard to know what he  thinks

when he’s golfing on his many links.

Since he’s unable to conceptualize, 

he obsessives over the small size

of his fingers playing tiddledywinks.

Because he’s not particularly well hung,

Trump’s like a brass bell that’s never rung,

like a flagpole on which no flag flies,

like a gossip columnist who never pries,

or like a stirring hymn that’s never sung.

Speaking of size, I perhaps should relate  

that on his Florida Mar-A-Lago estate

Trump  erected an eighty-foot-tall flagpole

in the proximity of the eighteenth hole.

Fit-to-be-tied, county officials were irate.

Trump’s notorious for innumerable  torts

and the eighty-foot pole ended up in the courts

where, snatching compromise from the jaws  of defeat,

his lawyers negotiated “a pole of ten less feet,”

which sounds like a puzzle by Will Shortz.

                              3

Trump’s a pusillanimous,  backstabbing 

draft dodger who’s perpetually blabbing,

who’s continually trying to save face,

a potbellied non-entity, a bonafide nutcase

who, when he’s not gabbing, is pussy grabbing.

If he would release his tax returns 

we could learn how much he really earns,

but he adamantly absolutely refuses to

release that information to public view,

saying it’s none of their concerns.    

If he wasn’t among the very prominent,

and especially if wasn’t president—

the quizzical equivalent of the Grand Teton—

there’d be those who’d say he was only a pee-on

in a Golden Shower that glows like neon.

When president Trump owns the venue,

it seems terrible but unfortunately true,

not only that he’s his daughter’s sugar daddy, 

but  also that the devil’s his caddy

and the Gold Surfboard his favorite hairdo.

And who created that hairdo, Max Factor?
Max wasn’t a producer, not even an actor.
His real name was Maksymilian Faktorowicz.
Was it he who covered up Trump’s MPHL glitch?
Only his hairdresser knows for sure.

When President Trump owns the venue

there’s  nothing much you can do  

about his excesses, such as  his gold tresses

and mad, impromptu state of the world addresses

because he’s allegedly a “billionaire,” not you.

                              4

And speaking of having little time,

Trump complained it was a crime

how much of it Barack spent on the greens.

When he was president he was Mr. Greenjeans

whose on-link lolling was pure downtime.

But now that Trump’s the president 

the unprecedented time not spent

in the Oval Office is allegedly as negligible

as the time he was putatively eligible

for the draft, which was nonexistent.

If  Trump owned only a single course,

we would still live under his curse. 

Even if he didn’t own a single link,

even if he had the ability to think,

he’d still be going nowhere in reverse.  

Some golfers lead normal lives,

have cars, kids, and love their wives,

but, unlike our non-majoritarian president,

they don’t believe they’re heaven-sent,

and don’t expect ballyhoo and high fives.

When the president owns the venue,

he doesn’t need to apologize to you.

Possession is nine-tenths of the law,

and it’s his balls sticking in your craw

and his clubs producing the revenue. 

That after all is the bottom line:

whose money it is, whose gold mine.

Whether you’re a peasant or a czar,

a round of golf usually averages par,

whether it’s  eighteen holes or nine.

                              5

But with Trump life’s Russian roulette;

he takes his chances and gets what he can get.

He’s a  greedy, pathological narcissist 

whom his brainless followers can’t resist,

but everyone else would love to forget.

They’re not amused by all his guff,

his holes-in-one and escapes-from-the-rough,

by  eighty-foot flagpoles reduced to seventy,

and other trumped up stuff aplenty.

With Trump enough’s never enough.

Because what’s at stake is civilization

versus nothing less than nuclear annihilation.

Think of the things that we take for granted

that may with his presidency be  supplanted,

such as thousands of years of evolution—

from apes to erect Homo sapiens,

to Captain Kirk from unfriendly aliens,

to liberal Republicans from Dixiecrats,

from beds of nails to ergonomic yoga mats,

from dreadful addictions to harmless yens.

                              6

The age of Trump is hard to believe,

and, like a virgin birth, hard to conceive.

Is it by chance repressed anality?

Isn’t that, at  least a possibility,

that it's a case of Adam and Steve?

The small stubby fingers, the very tight grip,

the deep, sinking feeling, the very tight ship,

the paunch, the jowls, the disappearing chin?

Now look at the trouble we’re in:

he’s about to hand each of us a pink slip.

Are we  failures on The Apprentice,

handicapped, without a prosthesis?

Are holes-in-one our secular religion

and is our Oxford not Harvard but Wharton

where the Golf Club forges links of avarice?

When you own the links you play on,

you can be as brainless as Ronald Reagan. 

Who’s going to complain? Only news freaks 

believe in those Golden Shower leaks

in which Trump plays a lowly pee-on.

Like a golf course without greens or holes,

or a materialistic monastery without souls,

are we the victims of a merciless heel

programmed to cheat, lie, and steal,

by one of the world’s great assholes.

                              Robert Forrey

Kroger's Honey Crisp

Not only is there no there there,

there’s little hair there either.

As we can very plainly see,

it’s the face of the immoral majority,

the baldfaced lie of the “billionaire.”

The nightmare of the American Dream

of men who cheat and scheme

to get there fast and stay ahead,

to prove they’re not a blockhead,

though that’s what they patently seem.

America, one nation under God,

where true religion is a fraud

and virtue is a will-o’-the-wisp,

a bowl of Kroger’s Honey Crisp,

which should be outlawed.

There’s no honey in it, first of all,

anymore than there’s beauty in a mall

or Gallic lilt in the phrase “cellar door,”

or a Walden Pond in a cuspidor,

or a trace of Elizabethan in “y’all.”

And as for the putative crispness 

of Honey Crisp, there’s more or less

of that than in the freshly printed 

dollar bills that are freshly minted

for ill-gotten gains that businesses

like Kroger’s make marketing

sugar, salt, and fat, targeting 

toddlers, teens, and obese gals

who are waddling testimonials

to the efficacy of consumer vetting.

What’s this to do with a president

whose vanity’s without precedent?

it shows how far a “billionaire”

will go to hide his lack of hair 

of which there's barely one percent.

                       Robert Forrey

Trump Tweets

In an interview, Trump called himself

the greatest baseball player in New York.

                                News item

President-elect Donald Trump 

campaigned snidely on the stump.

Scowling, contentious, uncouth,

incapable of telling the truth,

as if in a horrible life-long slump.

Each time he puts on his cleats,

he just can’t help it—he cheats.  

Ignoring rules, he plays games.

He slanders, traduces, defames

while he tweets, tweets, tweets.

He tweets morning noon and night,

tweets in the dark and in the light,

tweets both in and out of season,

tweets without rhyme or reason,

being both ignorant and uptight. 

He tweets when he’s stealing bases,

tweets when he’s tying his laces,

tweets when he’s stealing home,

tweets when he’s a gnome

in the dugout, making faces.

He tweets when he feels insulted,

tweets when he’s not consulted,

tweets from the top of Trump Tower,

tweets on the toilet and in the shower,

tweets tout de suite, unadulterated. 

Feeling feckless and wussy,

he compensates by grabbing pussy.

Then a tweet, like a song,

no more than 140 characters long.

His wife’s a gorgeous hussy.

Like mighty Casey at the bat

or the Biblical Jehoshaphat,

Trump will tweet beyond the grave,

a lying conniving knave

who’ll tweet eternally, rat-a-tat-tat.

From here to Kingdom Come,

he’ll be eternally unwelcome,

a Royal pain in the ass,

a slithering snake in the grass

disappearing up his own rectum.

                    Robert Forrey

Confessions of Photochopped Chump

                             Photochopped Chump

It's rotten luck that we  live in the age of Trump

because, anatomically, he's the rump,

the bald boob who wears a wild yellow wig,

not so much a stag as a poltroon pig

with a porcine paunch and fat florid face,

whose neck disappears without a trace,
at least in the cropped photochopped picture
in which he looks like the bovine du jour,

enveloped completely by his sagging jowls;

who, instead of speaking calmly, growls

and habitually, while growling, frowns

as if the press and the rest of us are clowns

who dare to laugh at the president-elect,

showing his and the office no respect,

dissing us rudely as dumb clucks,

or, in Yiddish, stumpik schmucks.

He's a self-confessed pussy grabber,

a mouthing entrepreneurial voyeur

who embraces competing bathing beauties.

While they're getting out of their undies,

he slyly paid visits to their dressing room

(like to the blushing bride goes the horny groom).

He's the pageant sponsor, asserting his right—

the droit du seigneur on the wedding night—

groping and grabbing, stealing a cheap feel.

For twenty years he was the biggest Big Wheel  

at the Miss USA and the Miss Universe

pageants where he was certainly not averse

to pinching cheeks and filching fanny squeezes:

He was the idol of all the rich lustful geezers. 

When he'a alone in his Trump Tower,

inciters say, he takes an orgiastic Golden Shower,

he and his guests urinating on each other, 

a (li)quid pro quo, if not a measure for measure.
He's rumored to have gold-showered in Moscow,
the KGB arranging it and showing him how.

He told the press, "That’s a contradiction in terms

because I have a phobia about germs."

Is a Golden Shower his idea of bliss,

or only arrested toddlers' group piss?

"Mexican immigrants will be our downfall.

The answer, my fellow Americans, is a wall

the spics themselves will end up paying for

without our having to say por favor.

I’m not prejudiced against wetbacks

any more than I am against blacks,

though the government accused me

of refusing to practice equality

by not renting to African-Americans,

who I preferred not to have as tenants."

Out of the thousands of non-black tenants I've had,

not one of them was a drugged deadbeat dad,

not one of them,  including mucho Puerto Ricans, 

and even  the very last of the Mohicans,
who I called Tonto, who was a credit to his race,

most of which had tragically lost face  

on the reservation,  drinking  themselves to death.

But not Tonto, with the alcohol free breath—

sober as a Witness during Prohibition—

he knew like a saint how to resist temptation.

Though accused by the NCAA and Urban League

of not respecting their Kwanzaa and wampumpeag--

I firmly declined to accept wampum as rent

or to believe multiculturalism was heaven-sent.

I recognize blacks as bonafide humans,

but I draw the line with Muslims and Mexicans.

I believe a wall's the best possible answer 

to immigration, that malignant cancer."

"Hey, so I like to snatch a quick feel.

So what the hell is the big fucking deal?

You think they care, these two-timing broads?

Nine out of ten are ball-busting frauds.

In business and sex, it’s all the same.

Get involved only if you can play the game

or you’ll get screwed sure as shooting

and it’s not just my horn I’m tooting.

Us guys talk like this to one another.

It’s not the way we’d talk to mother,

or to the wife either, like my dear Melania,

who’s not a witch from Transylvania,

as some gliberals want you to believe.

She’s not a high-priced hooker up my sleeve.

Just because she’s beautiful doesn’t mean

she didn’t, to get ahead, use the old bean,

and the daughter is just like her mother.

Ivanka never gets in a pother.

She’s brainy and beautiful with long legs 

I paternally nicker-named her daddy longlegs

as I dubbed her bust my hope chest.

You can label that—for all I care—incest,

and call my economics trickle-down spittle

and my politics alt-right piddle,

but I’m president-elect and you’re not.

You’re just Democrats  who've gone to pot."

"I do not drink, smoke, or pay taxes.

My patriotism wanes and waxes.

I always proudly salute Old Glory,

but dodging the draft’s another story.

I got four deferments during the war

for killing’s something I deplore.

I’m not a pacifist, no crap like that.

I’ll bomb Isis to hell in no time flat,

and won’t take shit from Red China,

that teeming, scheming communist vagina."

"Yes, I’m a bundle of contradictions

about who you can’t make predictions.

I'll say something crazy one minute

and the next something just the opposite.

I’m  often accused of being a born liar,

but I’m the incarnation of pants-on-fire.

I’m a seventy-year-old hyperactive

kid whose muddled mind is like a sieve. 

I’m a nutty television personality,

who personifies intellectual paucity,

a glaring lack of class and gravitas,

always sitting on my electronic ass

like on the reality show The Apprentice 

where I acted like I'm rich as Croesus,  

firing failures over and over again, 

a mad sadist who loves to inflict pain."

"My critics claim that starting in 1995—

though hardly an accountant is now alive—

that I got a nineteen-year tax exemption

and haven’t paid a penny since then. 

That may or then again, may not be true, 

but I think there's another reason too.

Releasing my tax returns would reveal

that my vaunted billions are not real

but figments of my financial imagination,

like a president-elect without the inauguration,

or like my celebrated golden hairpiece
on which I have a permanent lease
and with which my corpse, flashing the bird,
will someday gravely be interred.

When the wind lifts it off my bean,

my scalp, like my tax returns, should not be seen.

My tax returns' untimely release

would expose me like an empty codpiece,

so to speak, for size means a whole lot,

whether it’s a penis, fingers, or a bald spot."

Yes, he's the boss who throws his weight around,

who grinds his employees into the ground,

exercising his rights not only as a man

but as an American free-market fan.

With him there's not only no hair there,

there's glaringly no there there either.

In the end, at bottom, his sagging jowls

move no more than his loose bowels. 

                                   Robert Forrey

Xmas Forecast: Cloudy and Trumped

     

 A mostly cloudy Christmas eve

with no snow for Santa’s sleigh.

What Nick might have up his sleeve

we won’t know till Christmas day.

What’s in his big bag of tricks?

This year he’s got us stumped.

In the Joker-poker game of politics,

Will we win or be catastrophically Trumped?

                                   Robert Forrey

El Presidente Trump

     

Grow old along with me,

but don’t screw me financially.

As people are living longer and longer.

the odds of getting abused are stronger.

Elder financial abuse is increasing

and if those who are doing the fleecing

should turn out to be predatory,

like claim jumpers in the Yukon territory,

remember the President of the U.S.A.

himself is a greedy, pussy-grabbing roué,

a pusillanimous draftdodging stooge,

a dolorous xmas holiday scrooge

a banana republic empty suit, 

a bald guy trying to pass for hirsute,

a seventy-year-old trying to pass for young,

a putz trying to pass for well hung, 

brooding about his very large bald spot,

whose ties are long but whose schlong is not.

                                  Robert Forrey

The Donald and Mitt

 

I find myself in a banana republic

near the end of the journey of my life,

without a paddle, up the trumped-up crick

in which I feel a whole lot like Lot’s wife,

looking back at Sodom and Gamorrah

and seeing Donald-the-lying-low-life

radiating a kind of blank aura

like a brainless, blond toupeed leprechaun 

who owns nine hotels in Glocca Morra

and a golf course in Scotland located on

mysteriously shifting sand dunes

that, like him, lie like a son-of-a-gun.

A combative crook, he chronically impugns

competitors as born losers, as chickens,

as contemptible penniless poltroons.

The Donald hates foreigners like the dickens,

especially if they’re immigrant Muslims

or those lazy welfare Puerto Rickens.

Himself, he’s small-handed and avoids gyms,

a greedy pussy-grabbing eroticon

whose pursy mouth pouts like he’s singing hymns. 

The Donald foreshadows an evolution

among sober collectors of amethyst, 

a cultural throwback to Harpagon,

a miser posing as a philanthropist,

a Dixiecrat posing as a Republican,

a hyperactive posing as a Buddhist,

a teetotaler tipsy on “Yes, I can!”

An MPHL or Male Pattern Hair Loss,

a born-again, narcissistic also-ran, 

who is strung out on ear-waxed dental floss,

who won’t release an f-ing tax return,

because it might reveal nothing but loss,

that size matters because it will turn

people off or on, like a dumb light switch,

exposing him as no eagle but a tern

skittishly skipping along the shore, which

ever way the tide is running, snatching

tiny hatchlings that receding waves ditch.

He’s a yellow-headed tern, catching

small fry napping, wrapped up in his towers,

heavily leveraged, thus ratcheting

up the losses of those he embowers

with false promises of a big dividend 

compounded quarterly, like spring showers,

the gentle rains of heaven that send

the shoots up and the stock market flying

to his trump towers that shake and bend

and that finally crash and lie dying, 

or limp along sickly and awkwardly

as I myself now am, gamely trying

trinitarily to hopscotch from three

terza rima stanzas to another,

as Dante Alighieri did facilely,

but whom Donald the marketing major

considered much better dead than read,

covering up like a quick comb over.

That being said, there’s still something sacred

about the number three for Presbyterians,

as well as Mormons living and dead,

in fact for almost all kinds of Christians 

whether in heaven, purgatory, or hell,

with only Unitarian exceptions.

Donald’s a Presbyterian who can’t spell,

but by dumbing down verses from Matthew 

he hides his money under a bushel.

Who’s to say what is false and what is true?

But if we have a Presbyter and Mormon,

Donald and Mitt, as numbers one and two,

who’s to say which of them’s not a moron?

We’ll have a damned nation of altered states

when the elephant reverts to mastodon.

The Mormons with their transcribed golden plates,

the Presbyters with their degrees and money—

in spite of differences, they’re soulmates.

The Donald with pussy and Playboy bunny,

Mitt with odd doctrines and covenants,

who barely smiles and is rarely funny.

With no wanderlust or ants in his pants,

Mitt prefers Salt Lake City to Paris

and the Book of Mormon to reel romance.

At night, he knows just where the North Star is,

that’s how he finds his moral bearings,

just as GPS tells him where his car is.

Some macho men may like to wear earrings

and others may prefer same sex partners

in spite of the strait world’s sneering jeerings.

From gray seniors down to kindergartners,

males should be males and females females.

Don’t confuse Bloomingdale’s with Hart Schaffner’s.

Don’t confuse male buttocks with bunny tails. 

Don’t confuse Tom Jones with Liberace.

Don’t confuse small fry with Baluga whales. 

Don’t confuse Carroll O’Connor with Archie.

Don’t confuse Jean Stapleton with Edith.  

Don’t confuse the U.S.A. with oligarchy.

Still, we’re stuck with the American myth,

we’re stuck with the Donald if not the Mitt, 

we’re stuck with some kooky American kith.

We’ve politically stepped deep in shit,

Republican shit construed as constipated,

though they will be the last to admit it,

religion and politics conflated, 

the “You saids” and “Thou saiths,”

digitally, demonically prated.

Under the sway of gay ghosts and wroth wraiths,

we’re stuck with the collective psychosis 

and chosenness of the Abrahamic faiths,

as if, under the spell of hypnosis,

they don’t believe in global warming,

but do devoutly in heavenly bliss.

American refugees will be swarming

to port cities, trying to escape

from the chaos and the alarming

heat by sleeping on the fire escape 

or with the spiders in the basement,

sealing the windows with scotch tape.

Rationed strictly by the government,

air conditioners become rare as hen’s teeth

with Carrier making them seem heaven-sent.

Showing there was nothing he wasn’t beneath,

the Donald’s tax returns will probably show

he invested in AC’s, lying in his teeth

when he said he jawboned the c.e.o.

to not  hurt Indiana’s economy

by moving 1000 jobs to Mexico.

The bowtie twerp Will denies responsibility

for the Donald, implying a Democrat

is whom to blame for Reality TV.

Trump’s First Lady, the regal pussycat,

an alleged illegal immigrant

and former high-priced call-girl aristocat,

a slim, sexy, Slavic, sloe-eye transplant,

is as unlike First Ladies Nancy, Barb,

and Laura as caviar is unlike eggplant

or Queen Anne’s Lace unlike Ruby rhubarb.

As Nobel Krugman warns us, we now live

in a banana republic where they barb-

ecue you first and then stick in the shiv.

                          Robert Forrey

Avoirdupois

First there was  Rosie O’Donnell,

whom Trump said was a fat little pig.  

She should've replied nautically that his ass 

was as big as a hermaphroditic brig.

Then there was Miss Universe.

In the first  presidential  debate,

Trump said she was fat, fat, fat,  

because she ate, ate, ate.

When Hillary gained forty pounds,

did Trump  think a fat first lady

could do a better job than Belichick

pass protecting Tom Brady?

What gal’s safe from Trump's fat jibes?

Will he say our Statue of Liberty,

which weighs 450,000 pounds,

should lay off the French pastry?

What he's uptight about now

is can he clear the last hurdle

in the presidential race, namely,

the rumor that he wears a girdle?

            Robert Forrey, 2016