Sloth

Sloth is in a tree of his own;

two-thirds his weight lolls in his hairy gut.

He will only descend to shit and bury his turds,

easy prey for those who condescend, resenting

Sloth’s days of decadence where no muscle is flexed

or put to work – he knows the wages of sin

is what we all get paid. Not quite as somnolent

as they’d like, it occurs to Sloth he couldn’t give a toss

for slurs by those who cannot see the irony

in looking up to him, frustrated by his apathy,

green in their envy. And in his coat of algae,

time for a nap, Sloth suspects

he may merely have dreamt them.

The Martini as Big as The Ritz

A mixing glass in which you could launch the Ark,

enough ice to reassure the polar bear,

so little vermouth to cause France to revolt,

and stir as vigorously to cause civil war.

That aromatic wine strain down the sink;

you want this guillotine-sharp. Enough gin

to make Hogarth sketch again,

Hemingway shudder, Roosevelt

and Churchill to shoulder each other,

Bogart to falter through a Faulkner script,

F. Scott Fitzgerald to admit that he’s pissed –

this night could never be tender.

Think The Raft of the Medusa when stirring again;

strain cold spirit, discard ice like the hopes of the pole

and bask in the bullshit that heroes only need gin

in frosted glass that shows no reflections,

and the art of self-deprecation.

Sloth and the Snake

for the Standing Rock Sioux

Sloth farts himself awake,

groans indescribably – deprived

of sleep as he already is; bickering

neighbours, yelps and yawps have stolen

Sloth’s beloved canopy of lullabies.

And Sloth knows he’s too simple

but this morning, even he picks

up on disturbances. Sloth’s shoulders

stiffen momentarily as strength

is mustered to reflect on the beauty

of all he can see, and tune into protest songs

beyond water cannon and rubber bullets.

The black snake is about to slide

across the wide Missouri – far away,

that rolling river – and it’s not

the ever mournful leaves

that spill onto Sloth’s once carefree cheeks.        

Energy enough to chide Too simple

for this world, battling his eyelids

knowing dreamcatchers grasp

less than he does, Sloth feels fresh;

snatches the closest branch

as if it were a lance.