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Scourge of Plenty


Man a keen shard
Shroud in blinding light
In glazed varnish––
Man a wax figure
Sheathed in splendor fine
Smile wooden manners divine

Scourge of Plenty Man’s fell mistress––
Begone your gilded ardor

Man grand in tender green
Mean and starved
Of the rudely grotesque
Savage brethren all––
Man bald and blind
From thunder black to sunny gray
Swell breast a fleeting mirage––
To lush Eden attend

Scourge of Plenty Man’s fell mistress––
Begone your gilded ardor

Man beat by folly
Till contagion’s spread embalmed
Splintered and sundered––
Man belly a sluice of ash ebullient
Sun’s burst world’s end
Ere a thirst quenched

Scourge of Plenty Man’s fell mistress––
Begone your gilded ardor

Copyright © 2013 Elliot Silverberg. All rights reserved.

Potty Training


A florid, glorified production – an altar
To a gestaltist’s cognitive urinal

A jester mired in choral drivel, in a shrine
To lyrical plaster, pickles and pajama pygmies

Swaddled in chastity white
O bestial Balladeer! O curlicued Friar!

For such bastardized zealotry and handsome brackishness
A pasture of urban flower beds is much too kind!

So consign yourself, Eleanor of the paupered greenbelt
The Rigby brigade – to a Mackenzie homily

Six feet under, the surest track to an Eden punctuated
By cries of “Bad potty! Bad potty! Bad potty!”

Copyright © 2013 Elliot Silverberg. All rights reserved.

Ol’ Book, I beg ye . . .


Hearken ye ol’ square thing––
spine broke in two; vellum
creased, torn an’ yellowing;
gossamer locks tawny

an’ twined, poking from betwixt
mellowed sheets
till the uncoiled skein
a slim marker becomes.

Yer dusty shroud an’ stale musk
like a second skin are.
Gusty gales splash across
yer timeworn hide, scatter

grains of bleached sand,
unfurl ancient
pages in a fierce
swirl of crackling parchment.

Spidery script
runs along the sheets––
strange designs, ciphered to
ward against wicked sight.

Hid from the world but
the world ye are––
a timeless portal
of woven script

through inky infinity
to shores grim or merry,
seas stormy or calm. So, ol’
Book, I charge ye: yer mantle

an’ marker cast
aside. Ol’ Book, I beg
ye . . . to perilous lands yonder
take me.

Copyright © 2013 Elliot Silverberg. All rights reserved.

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