Dear Donald Trump
You don’t know me but I sadly know you
Your face has been plastered on tv screens and newspapers for so long
And your words have cut into my soul like a knife
Twisting each time you spew your venom
Never in my life have I been more scared of a man until now
I am now forced to be more aware of my surroundings because your supporters are hidden in crowds waiting…
Despite all your crushing charades
I have never been more proud to be the minority
Because for the first time I see my communities standing together
Seeing my family work hour on hour only proves you’re a fraud
Cause unlike you I spit the truth not lies
I preserve differences you block them
I strive to build peace between nations while you rather build a wall to separate it
News flash, us Hispanics don’t want to be in any country you’re running
We aren’t these lazy or uneducated ganstas you make us out to be
Us Hispanics are your backbone
Were the ones building the skyscrapers you got with your “small loan”
We’re the ones that make you look good to your “followers” because we’re your foundation
I mean let’s be honest
Without us you’d be nothing
The only reason you’d be recognized is because you bought a role on home alone 2
And by some weird chance of faith you’ve managed to stay in this twisted race
You’ve managed to scare us straight
And with some hesitation I say you’ve actually helped us
We are now united and stronger than ever
Because you’ve open our eyes to the fact that we must fight
So as I close my letter want to thank you
Because of you my family has finally registered to vote
Because of you our determination grows stronger
So excuse me if my poem causes you frustration
But I thought you deserved some type of credit

It started well, so cleanly
Soaked in Lush stuff she soothed the aches
Whilst wife was meanwhile cooking a treat
Cider soaked pork and apples
The taste was tremendous
Precedent set for the night ahead

Feeling cool as ganstas we bopped and grinded
To hip-hop only Jurassic 5 could please me with
We were few female amongst a crowd of masculinity
And we relished the imbalance
Flirting my way to the front of the bar
I reignited my relationship with the favourite Jaegar-Bomb
And there dust settled upon the cleanliness

Things turned hazy but in a good way
Post gig we flooded onto the streets of Brixton
And drank the finest foreign beers from an overflowing alehouse
The company was our long-missed men-friends
And yet we still meeting more
As we shared the ingredients to ***** our lungs
They asked for 50 shades of grey in return for rizla
So I rose to the challenge in my half-cut state

This time is was always my intention to wash the weekend down wildly
And starting Thursday this premature session could progress to only place
…the Queens Head
Where dust turned to grime as snapshots of evidence
Prove it was on the credit card that those Jaegar-Bombs were paid
Time and time again
We had become team-mates and it was time I fed them
So we muddled back to my place
Trumpeting our voices through the building
As I served slow roasted pork from glasses
Apparently felt good choice
But next day our melted fingerprints disagree
Our heads also disagree with the antics
And it takes two rounds of tablets to numb the pain

Before later forcing recovery as in Shoreditch we start again
Gathered at Bettys we watched music played
Our rumps rested on armchairs upon the pavement
We continued drinking until the early hours of the day
Then searched for somewhere to take us on the dance floor longer
After only brief grimes of movement and Jaegar
Our night ended abruptly to our dismay
Instead had my first take of kebab
And went north where *** took the night away

Once again woke next morn in bed with man-friend
No memory but surely not in a **** way
Now the skies ******* a mocking mirror of our livers
It seemed a sign to sink further
And the finest ****** Mary led the way
And together sat on sofas we philosophised subjects that we deemed great
Then we ogled sparkly get ups
With prices that we couldn’t afford to pay
So went south to join more friends whose film we met to celebrate

The beginning of the end of madness
Needed cocktails-all we could tolerate
We had formed a tribe of friendship
And we hunted somewhere to prolong the rave
By now all sense of cleanliness long-time washed away
So a downstairs dive provided venue fit for our friendships to extenuate

Then outside met a generous stranger
Who offered tastings that lead our minds astray
Our insides dirtied beyond belief
But sprits high so when we stumbled upon a private party
We were welcome guests to join their birthday

What happened next I needn’t say
For inevitably it had become Sunday
So ***** now we were beyond grey
In wife’s bed I lay
Whilst my insides showed their dismay

This would take some cleaning

a poem by
                                                            Alic­e Nemo
entitled:
                        (a) poem that summarises much
               of walt whitman
without all the airy-fairy
                                 angst-ridden waffle (2004,
poetry magazine
                                            Monkey Kettle).

under copyright restrictions you'd have to read the printed
version - still the pretentious "published" writers
waving paper about as a mark of superiority?
look, with the internet publishing Ferrari
you can wave published paper works a bit like a fiat currency,
which is the current currency -  i can do the same with
a poetry book, a paperback edition, a bit like
Max Keiser explaining the concept to Russell
Brand ripping up a twenty quid bill...
i could do likewise with some pretentious ***
and his published book of prose and just tell him:
i don't believe in it, not a single word of it,
i'm more worried about the one book, two book
dilemma coming from a simple heresy in
the old testament done by Malachi confused
about fractions, incorporating some sort of
reincarnation process to the 1 over 1 rule of mono.

but i have to apologise to        
                                                  Ms. Nemo,
    whitman's
joke concerning his
                             poetry was unearthed
  this year...
                    the rediscovered advice
        to                                                  Amer­ica's men:
                       meat, beards
                           and               not too much ***.

let me reiterate what fiat currency gave us,
fiat literature... America's got talent children's books,
fiat currency undermined literature by creating
fiat literature - both paper, easier for any idiot
to understand - might as well have a currency where
you post checks using the paper aeroplane postman
of your right hand - because to what will you now
apply the concept of money to? gold is tacky,
a rich man with gold is tacky, a gypsy, or platinum,
a double gypsy, and he's a total gimp
with a gold plated Rolls Royce, sending a fleet
or like-for-like rides to roll in London, but only
around Knightsbridge... and sometimes down to
the shady parts of London like Edgware Road -
you know, where the real London ganstas hang out.

god, i'm                     never going to
                      cite the whitman              answer now,
revealing                   the man behind
                                                 others'      in­terpretation
as Ms. Nemo suggested:
                                     airy-fairy angst-riddle
              waffle...
was that really a
                                           Smiths' song
from the album
                                     god save the queer?                  
                                       ­                   old school quiz:
old man the quasi-******,
                                       talked like a castrato
sung like a baritone...                                 it
                                                            was perplexing...
but apparently when
                                                not singing
                            he used a testicular
****** that squeezed               the *****,
                                                        ma­king him talk
like a pre-pubescent boy  
                                                          w­alking on tiptoe.
yeah...    47,000 word treatise
                                                    autu­mn 1858
  a mythological
                                   New York newspaper (myth-
i.e. long ago defunct),
                                                    mai­n points:
- beards are great sanitary
                              protection                  to the throat,
- too much repetition
                                 with ***         =        weedy children
- a healthy manly virility seems
                                                     to be
                                                                ­    almost lost -
   seems to have given place to a morbid,
                                               almost insane,
   pursuit of women,
      especially of                the lowest ranges
                                                                ­             of them;
      
(the ******* contract = no chase, but of course!)

     surely the personae of the odes to Lincoln
     a decent enough act,
     yet behind the man... words as those above.