By a crumbling brick wall

this smooth supine empty gown of pearly silk
carpets the sand as a gentle hand counts gold
threads with an amber taper, devoid of anger
because luxuries are best unwrapped slowly
starting at the corners. Delicate hem burning
blushes like an unwelcome, shared, stretching quiet

Burst banks of obsidian rivers flood quiet
dark magic skyward to lava birth the silk
head of a sun god who’s first prayer is burning
through a mountain of rolling, peculiar gold
as the albino python sheds burlesque slowly
its skeleton grooves a window melting anger

Reading Freud may result in free-standing anger
just after waking when the room is quiet
and a spider is a fist closing slowly
no minutes are left for frenzied princess silk
dreams of open cages or finding buried gold
the borders and capital city are burning

the blessed new and second hand clothes are burning
ceremonial psychic answer to danger
when the world is splayed between ochre and gold
you would give anything for cornflower quiet
the hand of Lakshmi cradles a lotus of silk
then clenches into a charred fist crushing slowly

because there is always another slowly
because Johnny Cash is always burning
because of men like Robert Kilroy-Silk
who’s very name tastes of raw woody ginger
his red teeth gnashing into the evening quiet
sunset on singed knucklebones panning for gold

the cave drawn fiery belly and crown of gold
depicts choosing ‘yes’ and ‘no’ however slowly
another crimson eye closes growing quiet
old scorpion drags a brass key through burning
remains. A final hand grips a sleeve in anger
to hold the ghost of Joan of Arc hostage in silk

and silky bitch smoke curls the golden question,
how much anger is wasted in water slowly
drowning what could be burning a quiet thanks.

Copyright © 2013, Claire Hillier
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