Mad Wet Elves

by on December 22, 2017 :: 0 comments

The unhappiness of sleep paralysis thoughts,
Straitjacket of seaweed and jellyfish tentacles,
A sea hag, heavy as an anchor, rusting on insomniac breath.
Stronger than sleeping pills, trying all the sweat wet pillows again,
What lie will we tell the children
When Santa’s Workshop falls through the thin ice at the North Pole?

Will History label us Stupid or Mean?

What lie will we tell the children
When Santa’s Workshop comes to rest on the Arctic seafloor?

Santa Claus entombed. Mrs. Claus in Tucson sobbing.
His mad wet elves coming ashore
On the backs of the last polar bears.

The Mont Blanc glacier in reverse has no brakes.
The hotel bar is now on the rocks.
The fighting Poets shout at each other with broken noses,
Blacked eyes, bloodied knuckles, spitting loose teeth at each other
“Stupid!”
“Mean!”

editors note:

Another holiday donnybrook; this time between poets for the right to lie and to write the lie rightly. No “L”. – mh clay

Leave a Reply