The Gaslight Hotel

DeQuincey and his Yellow Lark

Midnight in rain the message came--
Spend The Remains of Night With Baal

One o'clock-- aquatic birds loo-a-loo
and loons tuck their beaks in scolotress,
dive down with Gilgamesh for watercress.

Two o'clock-- lemurs frick each tick
and tock of Grand Meister's time-machine;
two hours gone to silence, to malaise--
I'll reckon Chaucer's way of telling days.

Two hours gone. Read Chamfort, Fonenelle
without chime or knell. Three moonlings
with pussies nearly shaved tell monotonies
of time and expose their deeps in tuberose
pose, turn and anus puck reveals in clench
the Yeatsian Antithetical Wheel.

Come to spend, mortify your life with Baal--
ever I pray there be altars broad to the God
of sacred hills ripe with figs to pluck-- and.
houris to fuck-- and on the plain Egyptians
gild their cocks with gold, mine their stones
from the banks of Bethesda's spring.

Enter my castle hall through the portico--
drink to Othello's farewell-- hypnogogic
lorio. Drink the moon my beautiful girls,
my moonlings all; entail night with vials
of vitriol and veen; violeted plates weigh
Labron down, heavy these lazulic stones.

Weigh them down! lest winds
blows menses out to reveal the joke on Eve.
How our open sores run the pus to coils
in the brain--brewed to sperm
that rots and spills out in dreams.

Three o'clock-- we hire girl dancers
with enormous cocks to dig with shovels
and picks. Excavate dear Kathy's tomb.
Olive and peach we find petrified
in baskets of reeds, we touch a virgin
mummer-girl grown from Amanita seeds.
She-Baal lives ever in this tomb--
leopard, lion and snake; in Artic wolves,
jungle cats and crocodiles. I eat the spleens
of maidens plumbed to cum--then watch
them stagger down to die on Paradise Hill.

Always forever beggers lay their filthy heads
in sterile laps of innocent Saints, rest under
trees planted thick on Paradise Hill
and sing ballad songs of Goth, Sloth, songs
of Passion and Lust on Gethsemane.

Obliterate my pallid song, these pathetic
refrains posted here in this Gaslight Hotel--
V’s gracious blog with a thousand rooms
to house my calculates in Off-Symmetry,
my arts of Blustery, my crazed senseless
degrees of Literary Arts and Mustery.

Four o'clock—my moonlings rise fulsome
and bare, sharpen their nails, coil ravening
raven hair and glide the slip of rubber prods
into their supreme cunts full of juice and air—
into the shared Sublime labyrinths of Baal.

Five o'clock-- moonlings toil and flush,
drink from turtle shells, belch and wade
the shallow weans of sulphur's Fairyland--
chameleons batting their bulging eyes.

They stare while I lick about the throne
of Baal, indraw into the netty sieve, into
scenty umber oils, into ooze of allizron's
tasty creams, around clit's tilting cleave.

Six o'clock-- by now much spume
has been gushed and frayed fimbriate.
Stll hungry my moonlings reach
for cybee pips to eat, finger through
gingered vees, labinate-- turn and show
to me how open and pink their clams.

Outside in mizzling sleetty rain December's
weather vane turns and points to Laura's
last lunar rule. Look! – glissando’s
hermeneutic waves conjunct with dawn's
star out of Jacob's book— it’s morning
and without my stir, it's seven o'clock.

At eight o'clock my moonlings drift, paw
at armilla and stretch, dangle their body
laze before my eyes.

I go out, raise my parasol and walk
to Lemur Park-- I spend the day
reading DeQuincey’s words to yellow larks.

##
Don Taylor