Before cackling dukes fancy in gaudy nouveau-riche fashions None of the aesthetic appreciation we might presume of lofty station Sneerers new to the peerage Whose recently banded fingers stink still of bandit hill and poteen still.
Jealous grass hates the glass hearted rose My ever-swaying gates froze halfway When the glade-dark of her blade-sharp shadow Blazed like the craven kin of matter along that lane Where in the year’s lateing frail leaves natter and scrape Like castaway playthings in a dollhouse hurricane.
Both sets of genitals sprouting from the face Like the hideous orgiastic plants of a miniature world Contained entirely within one bead of brown-tinged sweat Inside the enormously capacious asscrack of a Bosnian joiner Bent over a set of chairs A famously wealthy baron commissioned as a wedding gift For his indigent one-eyed son Wotanicalifornia… Read more: Banned Gods
Five gold-purple pied eggs it’d take a big skillet to fry. He’s gone now; His undisguised sun-haunted soul absconded, Beyond mind, the old meat years left behind, Off to try that oft-discussed angel-buttered chicken fillet roll in the sky.
Alchemisland 
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