Sneering bodies crashing
fingers, teeth going
too deep almost
nice clothes, dirtied
torn –
The lady at the dry cleaner
will shake her head, whisper
The animal needing
in our blood of
some profound releasing.
Consensual, highly productive,
pleasure-filled,
in its own wrong and right way –
Angry sex.
But is there a badass twin?
Is there angry yoga?
To free that hardened
knotted repressed madness
in the protected watery well of
our own Chakras?
To smash open ourselves
with flailing poses in a flow of
jazz, tribal,
tantrum.
Leaving our mats in shreds.
Murky medicine that shuts
the light, the clean,
the nectar.
Now is the time for fury.
Burn,
burn away the us
we know too well
to name.
Purifying.
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Editor: Emily Bartran
Photo: Pixoto
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