The Gospel According to Donald (English Lyric Poetry)

Описание: The Gospel According to Donald (English Lyric Poetry)

——————————

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was "I", and the "I" was perfect.

It spoke not in sentences, but in incantations. A liturgy of grift, a syntax of spite. It did not build a church of stone, but a cathedral of air, vibrating with the frequency of grievance. The faithful did not hear policy; they felt a tremor in their own bruised pride, and they called it revelation.

His face was not a face, but a sigil. A golden idol of self-regard, floating above the fever-swamp of cable news. To look upon it was not to see a man, but to witness an alchemical reaction: shame transmuted into power, ignorance refined into a weapon, emptiness forged into a crown.

He did not tell lies. He performed them. A grand, gaudy opera of falsehood where every shattered promise was just another thrilling plot twist. He understood the profound American truth: we do not crave leaders. We crave protagonists. And he gave us the greatest, most terrible protagonist of all—a superhero whose only power was breaking things, and whose only weakness was the truth.

His hands, soft as uncooked dough, never built a wall. But they built something far more enduring: a psychic barrier, a Berlin Wall of the mind, running straight through the heart of every family dinner, every workplace, every town. He did not divide a nation. He simply revealed that the division was already there, festering, and gave it a flag to rally under.

He did not corrupt the law. He revealed its hilarious fragility. He showed that the Constitution is just a PDF file, and that norms are merely the ghost of dead gentlemen's agreements. He turned the Oval Office into a reality TV writers' room, where the fate of millions was just another season's arc, subject to last-minute rewrites dictated by his morning rage-tweet.

The clever ones thought they could use him. The gray men in their gray suits. They whispered in the ear of the beast, believing they were its masters. They did not understand they were merely polishing the cage for a creature that had already swallowed the key. He was not a tool. He was the demolition.

And when the final credits rolled, and the last helicopter peeled away from the sour green lawn, he did not leave a void. He left a blueprint. A masterclass in the dark art of anti-politics. He proved that reality is a consensual hallucination, and that with enough volume and a sufficiently polished sneer, one man can change the hallucination for everyone.

His monument will not be carved in marble. It is etched in the neural pathways of a generation taught that cruelty is candor, that chaos is strength, that the only sacred thing is the unbridled, shrieking, glorious I. He built a new American scripture, and its only commandment is this: Thou shalt have no other gods before Me, for I am the Lord thy Id, and in My image—bloated, golden, and untouchable—thou shalt remake the world.

We live now in the world he conjured. Not a nation led by him, but a nation permanently altered by him. The fever may break, but the virus has written itself into the host code. The question is no longer about defeating him. It is about learning to live in the distorted reality he sold us as the ultimate deal. The carnival barker is gone, but the funhouse mirrors remain. And our reflections are what he truly built.

---

———————————

#poetry #Music #spokenword #CreativeWriting#ArtisticExpression #englishpoetry
#IndieMusic #poésie #MusiqueIndie #Poesía #MúsicaIndie #poesiacatalana #MúsicaCatalana #deutschepoesie #IndieMusik #poesiaportuguesa #MúsicaIndie #MultilingualArt #CulturalExpression #GlobalPoets #antitrumpprotest