When times are tough my magic ring gets me out of sight
Now when times are tough, it withholds from me delight
Indulge indulge the swelling lungs invoke invoke the gifting tongues
Really it confuses me, essentially contuses me, extinguishes fuse of me
When I wear it they can’t see but something else does clear
It makes me visit again and again, harnessing my leashlike fear.
No fire forged your circumference, two crescent moons in conference
Slows from rush to trudge my inner confluence; conflict ends; zens.
Ends in the ey-em bong-dry tongues, waking at three coughing up lungs,
Forgetting in real time, forgetting what’s old,
Forgetting the real me, green for the gold
Parts of me lost forever, my lissome frame host to sunken Atlantis
The Western Incontinent visits R’lyeh, the crap of a fantasist
Literary cease desist literally cease exist penning verse is breathing, nurse.
Roads to Rome lead and hard picks to nose bleeds bad things from bad seeds
Wisdom in every creed, darkness in all good deeds, but I am overlong in smoke-wreathed
Too much encanting smoke-breathed, cut me and I bud bleed I got something called weed greed
Call it weed need, doc, it’s my essential feed now part of me
Stopping myself from becoming an Ard Rí
Tawdry beaded goddess sternum my ring burns them
Titanic sank deep and Mariana met, Stella Maris the shadows of Paris haunted by rebels
I panic, sunk deep in the dank deep, outcreep my last peeps, up-kicking legs through bubbles
I’m like Gawain, green-haunted and seemingly chapel-bound
Nonethewiser for my gamesmanship, green games proved violently unverdant
Green priest’s detailed censer-tendrils lend my myths verisimilitude
With each agonised inhalation the king is killed and the lodge celebrates
The self-kindled pyre overcomes the kiln’s boundaries.
I poise for marriage, golden boundless endless
My ward in warning clasps my elbow, eyes beseeching
Danger knowing despite defiant bores the golden circuit
Circletted, circling myself as if from air
Swept by urge I defy myself to ignore it
Will my swooping spirit to dwell in the self,
Animating the hand.
So long I spend submerging urge’s cold embers of urge fit for coal buckets.
Boiled bottom from sitting, boils on gums; Boyle’s law in action; inaction.
Oils my barrels, oils my wheels, oils my needing, squeaking doors
Oils even condemnatory tracts
I cannot hate it without it, though it may seem obvious I state it (knowing another knows).
Alchemisland 
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