The great gaping gloom goon humps about my toenails and lolls in the holds of my armpits.
The goon has no excuse to appear in the afternoon, but he hauls on his rubber boots and slobbers along behind me.
Nobody reads my mind; my corners are bent and stained. The lion coos in his den and awaits the date of the massacre.
I walk into the world, my features filmed over in a fine smooth smile
You can stay on this revolving globe of outrage till it breaks wind and collapses beneath you. I will rise
through dark clouds of eternity, as fresh nodules of pain separate my brain waves. No one understands the glory of dementia better than I. My lips are fixed in a warm snarl as I enter the kingdom, my wings flaming, my toes curled.
Irene Livingston has published poetry and prose in numerous publications, including New York Stories, Buffalo Spree, Yankee, Midwest Poetry Review, The Fiddlehead, Event, SubTerrain, and Fireweed. She has won various awards and prizes, including the Leacock Award. She is the author of a children's book titled Finklehopper Frog and was a featured performer at the Vancouver Poetry Slam.
