I have lost my tail.

As bereft as that small blue donkey

with rolling eyes and world on hoof

demeanour, my tail, never truly secure

with that pin in my arse and a body

that people mistake for a piñata, knock the stuffing out

of me and in their eyes they see

sweets and papers fall to the floor,

not seeing the illusion that they

have kicked the guts out of me;

is it any wonder I have lost my tail

and the voice of slow desperation

is resigned, shattered and fucked over

by the myriad of other creatures

in the Hundred Acre Wood.

 

I don’t remember where I saw it last,

was I carrying it between my teeth

like the determined drive

my friend insists she still sees in these tired

and once sparkling eyes,

I don’t remember it swishing away the flies

that growl at my arse,

content to lay eggs in their cliquish ways,

content to see me give birth to my own

flattering neurosis and high protein diet; food enough

for all.

I’m sure I had it once

but the tiresome act of owning such

a silly thing, of the arrogance of the tail,

a pinned on appendage that others try to raise

as they hope it mimics my spirits…

The tail is gone

and as I slump off to the pit in which I sleep;

I find I couldn’t care less.

 

Ian D. Hall 2016