On the march
Marsh surrounds the marches
My banners like separated arches rise high
My forces marshalled, my powers Martian
Power in the bowl when bull blood splashes in.
On the March, the end of March
April pulling in, Spring’s pulled pin
Explodes in coloured sequin, printemps decoration fine as Cicero’s oration
None of the tag tickers for leap cards are working at the Luas station
Riding station to station no starman, my stamen cranes out at Your creation
Crate you flung us in, prate your tongue as in, prayed at tunnel’s end for light’s death and victory sin
Dealing from a rigged deck I’m beating solved games, my pasteboards at pace post blinds
My capacious swagbag overencumbered me, gold-breasted jubilee is my unseen concubine
I crave to feel alive like a soldier at Marne craves a woodbine.
Beautiful stupid smiling things, the sun itself adores
Adorns the lane and ditch where men march South
Watch living ghosts goodbye their lover’s mouths
He’s on the March, all the daffodils poking snouts
He practised art before he got shot but now landscapes are out
To make a statue of him, sculpt a full man and cut half of it off
Daffodils and daily drills and fortifying pills and confirmed kills
When a man’s head mists courtesy of a far-off scope
All we think of is his holeless coat
When word comes along the wire, encouragement from the Pope
All we think of is going home
Beautiful stupid smiling things, the Sun himself adores the pain.
Alchemisland 
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