Sneering bodies crashing

fingers, teeth going

too deep almost

nice clothes, dirtied

torn –

The lady at the dry cleaner

will shake her head, whisper

a prayer.

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.

This dark yoga.

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.

Love elephant and want to go steady?

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Editor: Emily Bartran

Photo: Pixoto