Each has his past shut in him like the leaves of a book known to him by his heart, and his friends can only read the title.
When Donald Trump paid a visit to the UK recently amidst mass demonstrations, it was obvious that he seemed to be oblivious to the not so tender charms of the people who were making clear their opposition to his presence.
The Pink Floyd album Animals sprang to mind watching his self possessed transit; a passage carefully planned so he didn`t have to witness anything as unpleasant as, well, hate, I suppose. But then again, sociopaths & psychopaths are innocent beings in many ways. Innocent in so far as they lack the finer understanding of gauging others feelings and behaviour, especially if it doesn`t chime in with their own self centred perspective.
The Donald progressed as the fat of his self love dripped from his orange chins; a pig man of our times of adulation of celebrity. Because that is what he is; not a president (he`s too intellectually juvenile for that), or a statesman of gravitas – bottom as some would call it in England- but a showman drunk with an intense love of self.
The lyrics of Roger Waters sums him up perfectly. His snout snuffling down in the pig bin amongst the truffles of public attention; bathing his obese body in the rivers of publicity, as he floats down stream, fat orange legs stuck in the air like sentinels or antennae, searching the skies for watching eyes. Because the greater the attention – any attention – the more intense the experience, as he shoots his load of self love into the atmosphere, to orbit endlessly until the end of Trump Time.
Language and good literature are like fine wine upon the lips. I cannot imagine a life without the written word. It`s the music which keeps the orchestra in my head playing on an endless loop of pleasure. Give me a book to read, and I`m as happy as a French man who has invented a pair of self removing trousers. View all posts by marlovian