An Elephant In Must
There’s peril in the signage,
yet visitors
enjoy the turbulent black sea.
A benign lust
grows malignant in chains.
The elephant
thrusts at the ground with
its tusks, as
though saving itself from the
violent voltage
current. It hurls its trunk up
the sky amidst
a thunder as the loudest
slogan of
protest in the universe.
It doesn’t
need a calendar. A mahout
can never
conceal its honeymoon season.
A lunatic liquid
flows down the side of its
head like
the lava of suppressed love.
Hormones of
creation are wasted in the void.
First appeared in The Literary Hatchet
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