Friday, 22 September 2017
They look upon his money and despair. The passport to freedom is teasing them from all the way over there. There's the smell of desperation in the air. Tied up teats and equally exaggerated hair. They flaunt their wiles as if they could catch him unaware, but he's too busy boozing on his bamboo colonial chair, his tongue slurring excitedly slapping on about his nightmares: the left has won and coal is dumped and Trump will never get there. He speaks of his works but none of the expats around him care, no one is interested in anything but flesh at this meat market fair.