BALLROOM
we Brits (was once Brit)
two centuries ago
torched
your White House
but now
the special relationship
all is forgiven
all is
forgotten
and now, anyway, you
hard at work
knocking it down
(Donald confesses to
loving that sound)
but soon
to be revised, restored,
resurrected
into a glorious ballroom,
divinely beautiful
fit not
just for a King
but for a god
place
for the elite
to meet
meat of the elite
one thing
about the true elite
will swear
to the media, to all
who might listen.
they are,
so bog
ordinary
which terrible taste
kind of confirms
that they are
and here
beneath this gloss
something exquisitely shabby
yet be
that as it may
everyone
will
fall over themselves
to be
first
to proclaim it a people’s palace,
open
to all
and sundry just
so long
as they be corporate, so
long as they bank billions
fantastic fever dream structure
that simply
pulls out all the stops
promises to give you
space to
express yourself to
trip the light
fantastic
waltz, tango, whiskey, Charlie,
delta
Lightnings, Eagles, Tomcats,
Apaches
whatever your wings
enough floor here to park on
rivalling
the USS Enterprise for
deck
to take off and land
returning from bombing runs
on incalcitrant blue cities
the governance
of America
not
leaving to chance
that no one
will
dance
out of step
play
different tune,
mess
with the waltz
rewrite
the text of this sacred script
that gave
us the blueprint for
this insatiable dream
and in the realization
of which
because money isn’t real
you need so much of it
poems 2 die for 