Pictures at an Exhibition


And the wolves have grown so bold.
Ravenous as unchecked sin.
What watched the wind as we sat
watching end in bloodshed its

whispering sprint was ashen,
willowing shadow playing
at names wept unsaid. Victims.
Game for the taking, taken


by beasts to be slain. Aching
delirious from the pain’s
incantation, faint of strange
men chanting at a distance.

Praying away blame, that they
might be forgiven for this
wanting. This craving. Seeking
to be sustained by echoes.


To be sated by breaking
voices carrying astray
misdeeds each dissipating
vestige of some faint spectre

tarried yesterday to make
seem needed their taking of
life from lovers next to whom
these shamans laid. Wreathes of priests


by unchased desires chained. Legs
with legs, arms with arms, palms on
naked sex, outstretched fingers
upon and around rigid

flesh clenched. Unchaste as eunuchs
reaching through disturbed earth by
sickening thirst scattered to
slake the sluice of their lips with


taste of what their masters’ tombs
were desecrated by them
to resurrect, that member
each prince willed be kept hidden.

Unbidden, chanting revels
unravel even still, song
spilling across æther we
watch black tongues water with ink


our eyes hear and our ears feel.
Ritual fodder those same
corrupt fathers offer up.
Ancient sages conceal naught

but, getting off getting up
to lord knows what, in their sweat’s
drenched circle dazed, test its well,
pull hard, raise hell, flushed. Elders


beaming, unleashing demons,
pleased to be whatever we
want them to seem. Better not
repeat prayers wetting our dreams.

Awaking to unzipped flies,
defragmenting them to find
the magic in the ointment
defiled by blind faith’s white lies.