Alchemisland

Leadbetter his work shed shines with spilled metal, mercury splodges like micah grown bold

Burnt back wall above cauldrons and ‘lembics, lamptonlike their flasks like gleaming foils, boils over some ensorcelling admix, panacea’s anathema greenstone of disease

At ease among dense tomes, archaic terms, okay with terms he signs a devil’s lease this hovel horrid but his, away from blasted heath

Each day at dawn, he lifts the smaller stone from the bigger stone’s round on the hillside and pockets his devil’s ducat

Big stone’s round like a Willendorf thigh smaller stone atop it where he stuck it, at dawn tomorrow another ducat

Draupnir the alchemical dream, two for one the offer we see oft now grants gold

Offa I am with want of gold, with digging and with boundary and with immortality from a hill

Walls agin which summoned flames formed pillared fiend theatres

Leadbetter no task shucks, neither work shirker nor burke; grilles his temper behind armour a self forger

His masterly craft unforgeable, great rudeworkers and artificers break their pens failing to outsmart his craftiness

Still he is grown old, bold in mind but taxed flesh withholds, groans like overfolded brass

Grassing growing waves enfolding rowers rowing at death toward yon distant shore

All this in dreams and drips of daydreams hit my eye like unexpected rains, I fell overboard

Early no swimming togs the drowned dead tugging at my toe tips, treading water while a sword

Turns like an cribtop mobile, destined to fall at the moment termed nubile 

Imbalanced his humours, overflowing inside him the wasp patterned yellow and black biles

Vials of vileness bitter and unbudging, stuck in the glass like other things a mirror saw

Old healing charms, to dust turning papyri found walled into crocodile house bank of the river Nile

They neither heal nor harm to be expounded upon, singing Solomon’s old songs, rare dancing Christian patriarch

Dancing with the stars, Dante dignity conferring upon Heresiarchs, what hell awaits him

His mixtures corrode needing scoville scales, above his dread cave where doll-eyed corvids sail

Suburb’s sharks razorbeaked they spear bread and chips, sparing not a crumb

Phineus his ribs ejecting him not eaten for weeks hates harpies hooks a spud and sprints out, curses Colchian Aeetes

A ring to bind and builders bring to him, bricks bitumen as shields to brine

Held in barracoons his broken slaves hear the breaking sea, boats ferrying elsewhere

Triremes, threemasters, their new masters intending to break them

Malnourished, weaned to ill rations, most saved were the most sodium intake thereby breeding genetic change, maybe

Slave seasoning they called it, brutality upon arrival, wax in open wounds of babe carrying slaves, nothing will souls save from endless torment who this perpetuated

Crisis of faith, some, fate of slaves unmarked graves or laden with mixed babes from master’s rapes

Season of the slave, witch cursed race, iron mask wearing abased man, prostrate, base instinct 

Withholding what brute master seeks to erase, within, fostered the endless flames like Bhríd’s Abbess, embraced in chains and braces the stickleback notion of masters races

Richard III types, Corialanuses spouting hate homilies; holy lances hiltdeep into anuses, orders of Dermot McMurrough

He’s in the place they cannot burrow down to, below the mantle, where endless fire retires the handsome

Advancement their maxim, ceaseless change and twinned to technology false Gods forward us unto death

Router-stacked Ganesh, graceless his rubbled tusks, sicks emails into blessing bowl

Warriors dead, proved not crush proof, crushed smushed underfootsh

No more boxing boys bound for Fianna ends, only outbox ye do is in inbox

Box the head off you like Solid Snake escaping red dot traipse up torso to bandana’d head

Raiden you would ride him but not the sight that sore fans sought out, too meta

Tale of the Mata, Ireland’s only creation myth, torn up leviathans allow the world to be born

Garden of new flesh, new light and new shedding and new shadow

Biggest lie of Locke Lamora that second book is good

Dropped the bag, plot therein, burnt it shouldda could

Ever cut three hundred odd pages and find two hundred left

Slim is sometimes better, sometimes slim can have chest with the best

When guardians slay I expect a lift amazing chest ahead big goddess breasts

Milk awaiting galaxy sating: cows vedic boyne ancient links twain

Cleavers expose bone’s best, bitter and bettering against a wasting disease

Old rites to mark the midpoint, midsomarnight’s meat eaters

Pard shod Demeters, devil-defiled daughters, deals done which decode Elusenian mysteries

No more the poet, palsied by his Abel, teases the urn for its lack of pellucidity, 

even Arcadi I, skull-crowned death, grim arches where rabid bats spreadwinged like inverted crucifixes

Eyes mine here and now in the sky, in the triangle’s baleful Balor fixation 

Virus-armoured angel, alzheimed by erosive voidlingering, haunts black satellite space station

Ancient stomach fungus occulted in myth mother of all ailments and diseases eludes historical record; quiet Aria, yet sung

Teased out by forum sages, germ theory let baby out with bathwater, hotter than clearly for idiots Tartaria

Taxed like imported wines, the King sends only his best to collect, Butlers of Ormonde power-seekers and rebels nonetheless pay their Butlerage

Constable seeks explanation for growing fatalities, rampant dacoity, goddess-strangling for Khali cult thugees hide from polish-bronzed Brosnan; apt, Irishman again to Barbary, boundless bovinity