Eager come the recent dead
Still naive enough to covet warmth
Hearing the living, I am living and this nightmare can end
The harsh, stout corpselight; the dead mothing in.
Blowing on ashes
Bottled nothingness, the nothing is lured into the nothing
The mind at war with the mind which is not the mind
From the dark restores an image, then a second, projecting self made light
Both anguished at confination at the cessation of confination.
Their fallen comrades’ flickering apportments float above the table
Scissoring air in search of strings, the visions parting and reforming like broken smoke
Faint residues of them
The room cold as an unopened cot
Like someone trampled their graves, the attendants shaking
The manifestations name the elden kings whose names sound like splitting wood
Trap of old glory, web of proven efficacy
Alchemy of Mars, making new war with old war
Undying untiring nuclear waste of old war
Glorious future histories of contemporary tyrants
The visions moan, warning or auspicious omen
“Christ of the Wood is coming”
Afloat the waiting dead, waiting within their waiting
The dead always hurrying, racing themselves out
Retaining impatience despite escaping time’s fire.
Cluttered with death, the feedback hum of empty hell
Heimlich-requiring rivers
The land constipated with unlife
Every religion reinterpreting old prophecies
The impossible offensively obvious in retrospect.
Alchemisland 
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