The Rusted Locket

the smell of salt in the air
the creaking of the rope as it’s stretched taut
the burn of it cutting into the hands
the rocking of the ship
the sound of seagulls in the distance
the heat of the sun on the skin
the slapping of the water on the side
there in the distance…
is there something there?

Meanwhile, in the real world, he screams and covers his head as it all comes crashing down on him, like a barrage of hailstones, like a photograph found in the clutches of a dead man in a trench during World War I.

And then:

— ptkh 101516

The Twitter Zone (filk)

(Somewhere in a golden hotel room,
Donald Trump’s starting to realize
The presidential race has turned its back on him.
It’s three a.m.)

It’s three a.m., and the press has gone
I’m sittin’ here Tweetin’, the rage still warm
Maybe Steve Bannon is tired of takin’ chances
Yeah there’s a vote to be lost, electors in my head
I’m worried of failure, all scandals ahead
I cannot let go, my whole stream spins into a frenzy

Help I’m steppin’ into the Tweeter Feed
The Net is a madhouse, feels like being freed
My filter’s removed under moon and star
What am I to post, now that I’ve gone too far?

Soon I will come to know,
When the voters hit the booth

I’m falling down with pollsters, final margin unknown
A double-digit gap means no return
I won’t win no election, Michael Pence, where are you?

Well, the jabs weigh heavy on my guilty mind
Just like that Miss Universe
And when the Electors come I know damn well I’ll be defeated

Help I’m steppin’ into the Tweeter Feed
The Net is a madhouse, feels like being freed
My filter’s removed under moon and star
What am I to post, now that I’ve gone too far?

Soon I will come to know,
When the voters hit the booth

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