A Christmas Poem

…balls; heavy, pendulous,
like Santa’s sack of shit,
or better yet, a haemorrhoid
balancing on the asshole of New Year.
An awkward, irritating itch,
soothed and anaesthetised with alcohol,
perfume and a Babycham.

…misery. That’s too easy,
a cheap shot at the world;
an orb of arguing children
posturing as adults around their sandpits.
In a whole universe of awe
we fight ownership of a grain of mud,
the right of someone’s body.

The holly…
…and I see cracks papered over
in colours of Mariah’s millions;
and sweet Lady D, all I want for Christmas
is news of him, Judas cradled
upon a spruce tree by an open fire,
suffering as a clay virgin and baby sleeps
safe from his Glitter fingers.

…yeah, that’s everything said
after a year of conclusions,
voids understood and blockages cleared.
A present to myself is to give no more
to those who give only empty air.
I don’t want a lot for Christmas,
which is good, as I’m glad with what I’ve got.

A Christmas Poem was written on Christmas Eve and published on Christmas Day, 2023.

Copyright © Dominic Lyne, 2023

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