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Victoria Nuland Has Gone To Africa
Victoria Nuland has gone to Africa.
Gone to Africa to talk some sense into the Nigeriens
and convince them to return to the shackles of Paris.
Gone to Africa to harvest blood diamonds and cobalt.
Gone to Africa to masturbate on Gaddafi’s grave.
Gone to Africa to trade glass beads for slaves.
Victoria Nuland has gone to Africa
to help the bank boys keep their dicks in the mother continent,
to help keep the siphon tubes stuck into the mother continent,
to help keep the Russians and Chinese out of the mother continent.
Traveling around the mother continent in the mask of a medieval plague doctor,
collecting the fat leeches and replacing them with new ones.
The AFRICOM emblem looks like a vagina,
and Victoria Nuland looks like an involuntary pelvic exam.
She makes me feel like a lost kid in a cornfield at dusk.
She has mushroom clouds in her eyes.
Soon Victoria will leave Africa and go home,
back to the land where corporations are people and flags are gods,
where the presidents have dementia and the poor have college degrees,
where alienation flows like water and bullet casings fall like rain,
where people wear airpods to mute the screams of their hearts and the homeless,
where the middle class talk only to their Uber drivers and strangers they’ve mistaken for their Uber drivers,
where soldiers march for fascism while flying rainbow flags,
where war is a lucrative industry and journalism is a crime.
She’ll come home to a house that no millennial will ever be able to afford,
into the loving embrace of her blood-spattered husband.
They will make freakish, horrifying love that night,
and she will fall asleep and dream of passing out cookies
while the world turns to fire.
I had a dream, too.
One of the strange ones that always come true.
A pentagon was smashed to pieces by a giant black fist.
I don’t know what it means
or what future it portends,
but I do know Victoria Nuland
wasn’t passing out any damn cookies.
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