Addled

Missing limbs mark lucky ones, their seen scars pitied on

Beloved not ye inner marked, who a dog wouldn’t piss on

Scarred ear to arse within

A once lucid mind o’er frissoned by insistent melee

Becomes a self imprisoner

Every second leaf is a poisoner

Poison oaked asses in medbay

Fingers crossed round marlboros

Crossed brows mark lucky dead

Frisk fresh bodies for Lucky Reds.

Around the jungle base a palisade

Outside which a proposed crusade

Girded nine miles round

Ball games are played, themselves facsimiles of the greater game

To match the holiness of the increate, there must exist some dark Baskerville shadow

Basking in abyssal mires, never tiring of plotting tyranny, jaws primed for tearing

Lord of misrule, himself the Infame, his asbestos mass rites immune to God’s flame.

Miss the lovely girls in green, green with envy at a wallet picture of a gentle creature

Even the crease and grease fingerprinting the frame cannot wilt her majesty

She seems a creature supreme, gleaning in those ginger corkscrews some glee otherwise found in seasons

Green and cold sap of Spring, Graves’ mountain mother and mythed muse

In treeroofed showers boys abuse themselves, spending powers in drains

Their powers drained, their brains fogged, their pursuit of glory dogged in wrong directions

Compassless led by erections, their divining rods handholding them through morning jungle fog

I will never again stop to pick up a fallen doll or kneel to pat a dog

Since Lance went into that straw shack for a boobied pup and an explosion sent him back in ragged portions

Parcels of his smoking gristle over which a gagging parson retched prayers

Wretched game and wretched players, wretched prey and wretched slayers.

Watch telly when they can, mostly settle for rock songs on a wireless

Exhausted and tireless, semper fi helps simplify the violence

Baddies can die by the hundreds of millions

Vermillion seas gush forth from these minions

As if a prophet-swung ass jaw repelled them

Goodies die in single portions robed in glory

Upward where angels compelled them.

The opinion of Mr Kissinger is that, should requiring fail, bombing will compel

Communism must be more than contained, they must pinion it

Nixon wholeheartedly agrees, pins his feathers to it

Pin it Greco-Roman style

Give them not greased palm, false heart and false start; offer only Rome’s peace

Pax they will have, razed lands over which packs of rabid wolves rage unbidden

Racks of lamb roasting, an altar fully stocked with offerings to hidden Rimmon.

Alchemisland