Trump
The archbishop of Money, he briefly ran
a broken empire. The experts barked for
him or against him but no one seemed
to understand this was one of the dullest
human beings God had ever created.
His every bleat, tweet, twerp was proof
that language had gone on vacation.
The man had accumulated Money
beyond computation, chirped
constantly with the belligerence of a
drug lord, chirped with the self-
importance that only money can confer,
and never once had an insight, a single
understanding why half the world was
bombing each other, why forests,
oceans, children were disappearing by
the hour.
No one could ever prove Trump
had laughed as a child. The world
he addressed worshipped
calculation, sang its praises in a
million classrooms. If Auden
once wrote, „Teach the free man
how to praise,“ Trump bleated, „I
damn everyone
except the foremen of my 26 golf courses.“
He was our reward for being good
citizens while our bank accounts
fattened. He was not so much a
controversy as evolution’s last
straw– humans flushed from the
planet for worshipping the wrong
gods.
Von Guillermo O’Joyce ist bei CrimeMag eine Besprechung des Romans „Der Vergewaltiger“ von Les Edgerton erschienen: „Bad ass crime fiction.“ Der aus den USA exilierte Autor hat „manuscripts available“. Kontakt: guillermojoyce@gmail.com
