Here every gatepost is one Yeats leant against
It’s like they’re obsessed, facades wearing fragments of stanzas
Strangers mates you haven’t met yet, enemies friends kept at breast
He’ll be a second coming now he’s gone, due after Godot, gone with winds he worshipped
His cold eye cast like a spell, his grave aligned to the great mountain
Beneath which the old folk dwell, swells up there and solemn sheep, windworn peak shears the winds
Clouds circling its level-straight summit like spinning spirits, barnacle geese appearing their spearhead clearing the dome of calm.
At Mendes an obelisk’s tip pierces the sun
Its pointed top the primordial island of benben
Races of giants who raised circles in solar alignment, defiant and divine, fled this island for Egypt
A gift we got our gab a gift they gloried at Giza, a gift from Thoth
Wroth at its misuse, Avianarrator, navigator of heaven’s gifts from sunken Atlantis
It sank hissing, its vile foundries, its blistering alchemies, drank by heaven’s fountain
Two great pillars stand marking the land gone the way of cursed Samarkand
Like Mantis forelegs warns of man’s hubris and ever-Fall.
Benbulbin its bluffs buffeted, blustering from the lips of Boreas, his boreads forecast rainclouds
Not a day goes by without rain or mention of Yeats, every gate one he posied with soon-poems
His idle thoughts masterful, his wild thoughts destriers which his bold quill bridled
Poised at a cliff edge looking out to Neptune’s lot, winds strong enough to knock a sot
Winds knocking cots from nursery oaks and cry babies are made bye babies
Foaming like a beast with rabies the turned tide insists further up the beach
Loam it seeds, again recedes far out at sea, it speaks snippets seep through to me in sleep
Knightly suit spun with jewels; the lid of night is thus arrayed here at water’s edge
Starfall rain of wishes, fruition of unlikely ends, rendition of unsightly rite nightly, Nightling.
Ag rith like I need a shit.
Alchemisland 
Leave a comment