but I am on the path to spiritual enlightenment.

I am supported, square, girdled by self-care

and the knowledge that the now is ever-present.

I am centred, level, and I never give an inch

to unbalanced or irrational aggression.

 

But I would really like to write a ranty rhyme.

Perhaps an incandescent ballad, a vicious villanelle,

enraged acrostic or a livid limerick.

Stanzas that would kick the arse of every mad dictator,

change the world to a place of equal favour.

 

I sit, unbecome, nothing more and nothing less

than this present, this second, I am breath

letting go of a physical reality.

My body disappears.

I exist in a blanket of serenity.  

 

But it might be nice to write a ragey elegy or two,

a contentious clerihew, perhaps a tetchy triolet

or fuming fighty haiku, a belligerent polemic,

an epic revolutionary rabble-rousing ode.

 

But I’m composed, static, knowing only happiness,

satisfied with self-contained contentment.

I am equanimitous, no longer fight and fuss;

shut my eyes, and tread the path to harmony.

 

The beginnings of a snappy snotty shirty surly sonnet

start to scratch at the back door of my consciousness.

Be gone, bad dog!

I refuse to collude with the terse terza rima,

the seditionary sestina shouting loudly in my dreams

No Pasaran to Putin! Freedom to Ukraine!

Man the barricades! Prepare the Molotovs!

 

Must concentrate. Focus. Not lose my sense of purpose.

I am on the path to spiritual enlightenment.

Believe.

I must cast aside this feeling of anarchic will to fight,

discard irate and insurgent lawless force.

 

HOW FUCKING DARE YOU BOMB AND BURN!

YOU ARE MONSTER, YOU ARE DIRT,

YOU’VE PROVOKED ME FROM MY PEACE,

HURTING PEOPLE FOR THE GLORY

YOU’VE NO GODDAMNED RIGHT TO SEIZE!

THIS ISN’T FAIR, I HOPE YOUR HEART EXPLODES

WITH EVERY THERMOBARIC SHELL

YOU’VE SENT INTO THE WORLD.

YOU FUCKING BASTARD!

I HOPE YOU ROT IN HELL!

 

Oh well. I’ll start again

on the spiritual path,

perhaps tomorrow

it won’t be raining sorrow.

Maybe by dawn,

mothers won’t be mourning,

and I won’t want to write an angry poem.