Richard Pierce

Richard Pierce – author, poet, painter

Poetry, Politics

The Creation

On the first day, he
Pretends to pray after his
Hands failed to find the bible
His oath is meant to rely on,
Turns a blind ear to mercy,
Practices his signature.

He sleeps in a tent in a white house.

On the second day, he
Sets his feet under the ornate
Desk, installs a fast food
Call button again on the surface
He defaces, practices again his jagged
Signature, his seal of power.

He sleeps less than agitates.

On the third day, he
Imagines he is the young buck of
Inherited wealth and unmet
Brilliance, the only one of his
Kind, avoids the mirrors that
Call him Dorian Orange.

He dreams of a pure race in his tent.

On the fourth day, his
Red tie longer than ever, a dangle
Between his podgy legs, he
Attacks the faith he claims to
Hold in his empty heart, signs
More papers in his disgraced office.

He wanders the empty corridors.

On the fifth day, he
Invents new enemies, prepares
Countless invasions of countries,
Puts his hands both onto his holy
Book of tariffs without understanding
A single word of them.

He daren’t knock on his wife’s door.

On the sixth day, he
Proposes ethnic cleansing in
Gaza, erases a people’s history
Just like that, because he
Thinks he can, and retires
With a box of fast foods.

He sleeps surrounded by left-overs.

On the seventh day, he
Can’t rest; nothing has changed
Except the world fears and loathes
Him even more, readies itself
To do battle against him,
Despite the nuclear option.

He can’t sleep. He’s not a man.

R 26/01/2025 17:55

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