Belts

Pain abounds from my rebounding knuckles

Cringe like someone rewound your fuck up

When I rock up, your face a mock up of destruction.

Traumas I can’t pass

Van Allen belt of my misdevelopment

My coffers idly spent

Hefty bills seem devil-sent

Everything feels pent up

My life a book reassembled after blending

Mendicant’s bible, my labours merely leant

I spent half the shift blemmed.

I’m strategic as the Khyber pass

Read belly yellow as mustard gas

I would try something but, alas,

Limbs overheavy below a morass

My leaf puddle compass swings North, an alpine pass

In all respects impassable, glassy goat trails where icicles hang like crystal coat tails

With galeforce flurries seem to float there like thought forms, sworn to snow

No form can be discerned through the storm, mountains without form doubt their shrouded might

Horned peaks carpeted with wincebristle pines, a phalanx of shaking nevernakeds

Forests where it is always night, as above so below

The waves the high peaks, the abyss and the snow

Passing roughstone mounds marking murdered men, dwarven in aspect

Steinbeck’s staring Watchers observe my ascent

My pack clanging

Famine thin air, not a pick on it

Feeling lightheaded and sick

I carve stairs with my ice pick

My colours blur and bleach out

What is cleansing but self flensing.

Alchemisland