I do not usually solve life’s turmoil using poetry, but this time my writing spat out in splintered hiatuses and unpolished turds. I took a deep breath, dried my eyes and instead approached it by milking my condensed rage into stanzas. It behaved more like a well-mannered lady and less like a clangorous buffoon.
Long into short, fat into thin, spherical into triangular – or however you wish to put it: I had an upside-down smile sort of a day. This is the kicking, fighting, biting ball of blackness that my day disgorged transformed daintily into polite little stanzas. I call it ‘Sleeping Lions’.
Curses stitched shut,
My mind’s eruption,
A stifled sneeze in a silent audience.
She struts the sow’s strut,
Her throne isn’t gold leaf but burlap sack,
Make believe becomes real.
The catbird seat is licking his paws after a large kill,
He is too full to be bothered by such things.
‘2 + 2 = 4’
Justice is dead,
Logic is wrong,
Prey are sleeping lions,
Because we can only get sad,
We can’t get even.
And in the branches of the trees they are licking their paws