Ailill’s most recent poem to appear here was Inspiration (October 2010).
The Guests at the Feast
By Ailill
These castle walls,
meant to serve and protect,
reject the knocking of the friend,
allowing the enemy to enter within.
At the midnight hour,
calling upon his powers,
deceptively, the adversary
enchants, be-spelling the inhabitants
into a trance. When all are asleep
he steals in like a thief, bringing
with him his legion of companions.
The forsaken ghost child of abandonment
weeps of woes pleading in with her begging bowl.
Words sneeze in with the potent punch
of the plague, each new host replicating
their proper diction in form and function.
The genie of deceit seeps through the slits
and cracks, cons and cheats with the tap dance
rhythms of his flashing electronic feet.
The changeling of pride hides himself inside
the bona fide familiar, shifting shapes,
hints of hues, changes in skin; adept
at deft reflections of mask and mirror.
Projects himself as both producer
and star of the show. Each episode
the pretentious pomposity
of his self-importance grows.
Temptation, slithering and sliding
with a histrionic hiss, allusions
to a kiss, seduces with the fruits
of the garden before they’ve
had a chance to ripen.
The imp of shame squirms and squeams in,
smearing the door frame with the skeleton
schematic secrets of past days.
Hardcore clawing and crashing through the door
bellowing brimstone breathing fire,
with the thrash and flail of his cannonball
tail he bashes holes into the wall,
incoming vengeance is mine thunders
and roars down the halls
with a righteous vindictive anger.
Dragged in on the dragon’s scale,
attired in black, faultless blame raps
his gavel, attacks with accusatory
airs, “Who let me in? They should be tried
and do time!”
Close behind, the Maine Coon tabby
of defensive decoys, recoils
growling herself into the closet
over by the corner.
Grimly, grimy grubs of green envy
grudge and fester molding an oozing
mire of desire, defiling decay
into a fetid fecal fungus display.
The night shade of despair drips and drizzles
until the flood gates break, foretelling doom
in the trembling tremors of tropical typhoons.
Barging in, these unwanted beasts
gorge themselves upon the blessings
of the feast
but a truth untold,
where is the host?
