Rotten with Druids cider, ruckling out breathy rebel songs
Rum ruddled rounded cheeks, angelsheet a bellthroat throng
A house window teases warm light, warmer than any fire without; in there is where I belong.
In fact this house is the house I bought. My son and I tossing ball, imploring him “go long”
The door is sturdy, it’s tripled locked, but not his shoulder strong
Boots he’s not removed in a year, feet like something inside a sarcophagus pong
Visible emanation of stench, impossible sustainment of rot. Ding dong
Someone at the door he opens, the talkings long the urge is strong
Behind his back the blood slick pole behind his back the stoven foe
Something living behind the oven door.
Alchemisland 
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