That tiny mouth Screws tight like a cat’s arse. His eyebrows arch down Like wiper blades on a Written off Citroen. He closes his eyes screwed tight And makes the same sort of noise As the grunt my gran lets out After banging her shin on The coffee table, And then he makes another sort of noise, Similar to that uttered by someone After they’ve realised they’ve Stepped Barefoot on a slug. That’s noise number two He wrinkles his nose And some snot comes out. It’s there on his upper lip like a green Hitler moustache. His shoulders are pale white But there’s a semi circle of orange. He smells of chip fat and fudge. He quivers for a bit Like an old fridge turning itself off. Soaked in sweat, he Collapses onto the bed, The bouncing motion of which And the big slap He delivers to his own belly Causes the moistness to fly off, Flobber around the room Like one of those big dogs with drool When it shakes its head. He then makes a noise Which might be laughter but sounds Like a Cat about to throw up a fur ball. Donald Trump Enjoyed his orgasm.
Robert Garnham 