The Pineapple Club, a chapbook of 14 poems, by Silas Gorin
Two digging sticks; a coffee jar from uncle Tang;
my cousin sulking in the rain but back again now
he sees me kneeling on the floor, head to the root
ball curled like a cat in the steaming earth, dirty
on my dress from wiping eager hands, forgiveness
in the trees: a hunt for the birth of a world.
Prep Juice And Stainless Steel: A Romance
The west wing; vault of gold; jarred up
honey in the deep cellared kitchen;
old timers on pay as you play
silver dollar crack pot schemes
to bring crystal lust to the two way glass-
one way street of the viewing rooms;
The extractors, Rolls Royce in gear,
working away the hair shirt haze
to leave the velvet.
But such delights to be broken;
such reward for the men in white:
segments to be dissected;
wriggling slinks to tantalize
and present as a new life.
This must be an art. How else to explain
a man’s real purpose:
Chinoiserie revisited with irony:
an ultimate control.
For this is where the talent grows
patience; where the flesh
where the urgent scoops of papaya
are spilled like confetti
over the main dish;
bite down on the apple, dear
suckling; lie biddable;
bide your time.
A Red Candle
One day not far off, for myself
these eyes, this feature, so called beautiful
will be. For another? Fanciful play
like the mimicry of a butterfly.
Out of the window a wing is given
to the wind: carry for me to my home
she asks as she lights a red candle
and floats it on her bath of lily petals.
Her robe is on the bed; her time
resides happily. In the confines
(of her dark nest).
clients can only dream:
once in life, at the final breath.
But one she knows still seeks her hand.
She judges nothing, nor corrects
his foolishness; vision she’ll keep
free: but her eyes her own, and wishes for wind.
Mr He In Love
Pictures of Lili was where it all started
for Mr He. Obsession developed quickly
into a love, clear through the pores
to attack the vein walls
of a complex network. Rights from wrongs,
a strong undertow, ran on
at the base of an awesome wall;
duties tinkled, like bells in a distant courtyard;
thoughts knocked on the door of his summer
with tiny hands. But there had been built
a furnace, and he heard nothing but the roar
of his own love: His throb,
that of a freak fruit on a barren tree,
rose and fell.
He felt the putty of his torso
firming, his wet rot lungs
filling, as if nursed better
by a magical matron of iron.
Marriage, never again
living, rises and falls
under tasseled lampshades
whilst reading vanity fair.
We went to see the new place when the dust
had settled. I, surprised by the blood quick
flood that filled my heart, couldn’t quite suppress
a smile. It was a concrete cavern, rough
wind blasted, hanging on the thirteenth floor
like a battle wound on a fresh young chest
but on this day, my wedding day, the eyes
of dying heroes, the stuff of tinder,
gave love to all who gazed therein, and so
I squeezed the hand of the bold and handsome
man beside me. He got the strength to boss
his fear from me, of that I truly knew;
Pointless, to tear away my glance from fixed
pointedness: It would be my tool for both of us.
In a cove far away lies a beach of black turtle shells:
When the tide rushes in, then white spume fills those cavities:
As my heart fills my throat I am craving more medicine:
a gross defeat.
When your mother comes calling, a weight loads my uterus.
(Bring her a slice of cake;
show her your sweet side.)
As she opens her mouth, the walls shrivel and desiccate:
with the sacrifice calming herself on the altar;
unsheathed the horn blade brings a carafe of blood.
Her golden bangs at odds with filth
the eyes net trapped and pinned black breasted:
six sixes are thirty six
seven sixes are
not a clue
stand on your chair and put your hands out
laughter left, whisper right, she moves half crouched
as if she may have wet herself
fingers falling attempting to count
arms both testing the space each craves
with the honeycomb prize
just out of reach
and crawling with idle bees
I’m going to take off, I’m going to stand up
I’m going to do what the teacher says
he kicks the chair away
she dangles there for one sweet moment
limbs irregular, suspended
in a net of confusion
then falls to applause and uproar.
to the concrete floor
it is Sir
roaring in the backdraught:
a kettled dawn
caught in the eye
between breath and life.
Each compound lens
a swollen mirror,
nesting in silver
the jewels of struggle
This cynosure in gall stone green;
this jewel in a caul capped crown-
plump as a maggoty mum
is brought forth each dawn
on a faultless plate of Dutch.
Cap in hand,
she was supposed to crawl
from the door of her cell to the throne
on her belly, empty of pride
and she did,
but the point of her forehead remained tight lipped
and the fresh rat heart at the core of the fruit cooled
without enticing disobedience.
She used to be told that she’d swallow the sun
and turn the new day in
to night, in those mornings
when she couldn’t quite help but scream.
Tough choice, between fear and hunger.
“Miserable faces don’t win races
and raised glasses don’t clean arses
He: A know-all with a banner
smile, and a black wax wish……”
The guards laughed at this.
The chamber was cold and damp
the slime iced on the walls
to make a glass. To find himself
within this starve pot, flat lying
with thirst, a black leech mouth
to the dog dirt ground,
meant to free himself from hardship.
This is what she had given him
in the final analysis. A way out
was where this was all going.
Suffering was a test of faith,
and his was blind. So they led
him out to the pail of blood,
put the brush in his hand
and told him to paint a door.
Mr He’s Last Chance
He awoke on a barren ground
stood up, shook down, and busted
the seal from his eyes. A blood crust
weighed his tongue down heavy.
There was nothing but iron to speak
of anyway; now riveted
(Mile upon mile, Billions strong
in vanishing lines
each smooth head belying
the pin below
bound to parade)
the plain was all there was to see:
No hill, no gorge, not a tree
nor blade of grass
not even a solitary grain
of sand, just a sky
milk sickly, shifting
from high noon to midnight
without so much as a drop of dark or daylight
to give the game away
So he set off for north
the road rod straight
like a seed in his soul
Tight Spot Blues
Gonna truss you up poor bubble
gonna jam you in my bowl
gonna draw deep on your cinders
‘till you canna even crawl
Gonna truss you up now bubble
‘till your limbs are set to fall
You’ll be beggin’ to be crumbled
just one more time at the devils call
gonna squeeze yer lille bubble
gonna tap you through my pipe
gonna pour your sad wet soul
into depths as black as midnight
gonna squeeze you little bubble
squeak and roll yer to daddy’s glass
you’ll slide down my filth throat baby
and give me all your livin’ draught
Greying oceans, tranquil dreams
lie deep in the bone ash dust;
vaults of lime heave still
and souls exist in yearning
poles apart. Arranged in dry
thirst, memories scale the eye
and sing a paean to sight. Snake
skin tombs protect their clutch
as peck peck peck the boy inside
works hard to please his master.
The Melon Seller
How could a day be divided: time
blown into dust and consuming ice,
flame, and all elements before it;
swallowing gorge and mountain; cold
shouldering kings; dismantling favourites
How could the fearsome court of sky,
circus of runaway vehicles
fall from the blue like a finless fish
turning alone in the ocean? Cold
comes the answer for the melon seller
Cold as she guts each pristine slice
numb as the blade that slides
through honeyed flesh. She’ll never yield
except to that livelihood fruit
and its string of yellow seed
sown on exclusively Gucci designed
tan leather shoes from a faraway time