Silas Gorin

To paint hard buds upon your chamber door
to be allowed to load this brush with gorge:
I distance from this dream, otherwise
the cage would burst; the bloody gas
would fix in augured death. But life
it is that our result will be; complete
we will this circle: in perfect crime a twin
bringing me my alibi, chastity kills
with masterpiece began by marking

Your sexy little things are spread
in screwed up balls about my bed,
like tissue paper pompoms stuck
on works of heart designed for love.

But miles away from lingerie
and spoken spice at foreplay’s seed:
your last request for which you’re braced;
confessions, breathed against my face

as whispered screens behind which glow
the lights that cast those shifting shadows.
This mass of love; this dying star
of moment cast against the dust

pulls hard the instinct of my heart
while stoking fires of raging lust.

The wide eyes of the fresh faced staff
at stake; a steel collection plate
making the rounds; the slimy hand
of the greetings dwarf out of sight:

no wonder the air conditioners
work themselves into a frenzy,
blowing and sucking for the mob,
with their bits of fluff and paper

dancing to the tune of the gas
they seep. Into the gaping mouths
of the innocent, blank words form
a funk, like a swarm of horse flies

cruising the dung down horse-shit road.
The pixels crawl on the great screen;
a slave army. We have requirements
by bullet point. The theme is clear:

joy is not to be a given
but must be earned through giving
more. Play hard, work hard.
Ethic is all in our family!

Outside the great hall, a door, high
as heaven, is cracked open. Men,
two of them, stand God skinned, withered,
for once under the microscope.

Tasting fear in the wings, they must
prepare the punch; a meaty brew
of fat boiled off into a brine.
We’ll swallow when instructed; smile

that final frame before the dark,
with our tutus stained, and tip toes
raw to a point. Adagio!
Drink, my children; let our magic

concoction moisten your dry throats;
then dance for us, children. Real slow.

The fields with fairies laugh and dance
the hills with toadstools grow
as the merry makers stop their hearts
with treasures from the trove

and beat beat beat goes the jamboree drum
the tables heave with wine
the souls browse the racks in a state of flux
either side of the twilight time

and ring ring ring goes the register bell
the maidens skim the cream
and the little death dies into life again
like a ghost in a mirror of dreams

When did the globes become a problem show,
or any of the numerous other
back patting circles, quilting bees or shire slick
worshippings whittled in columns of clay?
The true ghosts must be begging,
hoarding hope at the hangar doors
of this studio necropolis.

Inside, manicurists, blind
attendants to the claws of kings,
rein in the growth of death.

“Enjoy it. Light a candle at the shrine
for me. This love of self must be a sin
or have I missed some irony?”

But I know, as I rest my snout
on the cold stone floor
of the cynic yard,
that the answer
is yes.

The taxman had arrived; the hedge
around the village strained
as each fine root seized
in the earth; the fallen leaves

rattled over hoar frost ground
as the wind picked up. Households
gently snuffed the lingering lamps
of early morning: it was time

that the bill be paid in full
with breathing coin, crib fresh
and wrapped in Christening gown
as humble tribute to the lord.