an exhibition in crucifixes

by Tempest Miller

The Greek god of wine and ecstasy is on the cross in the drawing room.

The Silenus is in fetters at Halcyon Gallery.

Photocopies of Nietzsche’s letters signed,

der Gekreuzigte

lay on the varnished table.

Over in the corner, a collage of the crucifixion with the Holocaust

and, provocatively, dada cut-outs from

David Irving’s histories.

A plaque of Leonard Cohen’s writings - songs, poems, novellas -

linking individualised Jewish suffering on the Cross

with the terminal crash towards the gas chamber.

Photos from Lichfield Cathedral south transept of stained glass.

The Stations of the Cross.

Angel carvings on the pillars of the gallery.

Seven year old child extracts cobalt from artisanal mines

deep in the Democratic Republic of Congo

for phones never ringing in lonely far-left incel hands.

In porn-stained hands.

In pogrom-bloodied fingers.

I’m in a death cult of dead child workers shining in African sun.

The silence of God at The Vulture and the Little Girl by Kevin Carter.

At the bombing of Edgware Road, Hammersmith.

David Irving’s prose is matted in flaccidity and blood money.

It’s cut-up at the blood curdling moments by a baby

lifting stones out of water in Sierra Leone.

A crowd catch cheer rings out at Lord’s.

When you move into a Cathedral Close in England,

the nearness of God’s house elevates crucifixion anxieties.

When you are in the Congo or Sudan it’s much the same

but only for the sufferings of a child.

Der Gekreuzigte, at Ely Cathedral, Cambridgeshire.

An emaciated gay man with HIV in 1994, on the crucifix, Slough.

Traversing London outside the gallery,

I turn up on Met body cameras, CCTV, facial recognition, drones.

It is hard to tear the nails from your hands,

sweat glistening on your brow in Ely Cathedral.

Photo of Tempest Miller

BIO: Tempest Miller is a writer from the UK. His work has featured in Apocalypse Confidential, Bruiser, God's Cruel Joke, Chiron Review and elsewhere. He releases a monthly chapbook.