Alchemisland

See through your craft, pyrex lyrics

Burn down your raft, fire ass lyrics

In your wallet a perished prop durex

In my wallet a rarified crop of flex

Worthy bills

They fan wide

Fans far and wide

Plans from which you cannot hide

Plans involving your slow demise

Neither all smiles nor miser

Realest since Aurelius, my forehead’s aureate beams blinding

Gold as Aurelian, gold as piss flowing out from Reagan

Ronald Reagan how I mount the nuke, bronco brute

See so much you’ll never see again

Youth, don’t make me talk the truth

You’re a Pippin, fool Tuck

Took few L’s, through them ripping

Meanwhile I’m sitting sandals up with a belted robe, Friar Tuck

Lads driving trucks full of coke up the Ballyogan Road

Thought it was a Christmas ad

My chasing ages you before your time

Owl how you swivel to look behind

Potential hindrances unsettle your mind

Previous instances, my mettle and yours entwined

Like rutting stag horns, locked we were absolutely, wine

And whiskey and beer and cider 

You turn to find I am fading like a mural of an ancient kind, millenia without the light

On the wall of a sunken tomb, such kind that hold a king’s rind

Crane-shaped wine casques studded with jewels, other elden delights

From Dawn Age rude workers crafting metal devices

Wine dark in the lidded void, they pale to white as a preternatural fright

Might to a beholder’s Samsonite locks, shocking them of their red dragonfire

White as what a liar plys, white as the liar’s price

White as the dividing line, meridian merrily dying against the lifeline

I’ll turn you white as the shepherd’s flock

I’ll turn you red as the headsman’s block

I’ll turn you blue as the flax crop, blue as the star of life

When you are hungover

I will hang down like a vampire

I will haunt the rafters of every room you venture into

I will be a knife alongside the sword of Damocles

My pommel’s rood-shaped shadow cleaves your pate

Oh my gosh, you brought your dog!

We’re just sitting down to Indian, come in

Come India, even

My pomeranian ate your rarha gosht, cleaned the plate

What is this, Rudyard Kipling?

I’ve got more ballads in the barrack room, more penned shells in cold storage

Than you’ve got balls in the bollock womb, fewer leant attention ‘cause your boring

Every troop salutes, the masses mass as they did in shelters when the nukes flew

Finally, some said, at least we’re through it; God, no, thought others, it can’t be true it

Can’t be real

My mushroom clouds I exhale with zeal

My other mushroom clouds the paint will peel

Your shadow etched on a blasted city step

There when all the debris is clean and swept

Your shadow will be like a museum piece

A root for place feeling, an epoch separator

Between the meek healers and the death dealers

Most of that fell kingdom went into the seas

The rest died to war, or manufactured disease

They were Gods and had displeased themselves

Atomic displeasure, the final dispossession

What possessed them, the men at the buttons

You will be a relic, like the hoard at Sutton

Hoo. Who was this man? Worksheets will ask 

Class tours will laugh, you will be in fact

Like a thing made from plastic, a mere antic

Dragged from a long-chained attic

The weapons fired from the sunken continent in the Atlantic

Were gigantic, casting thunderbird copies on the beach

Carrying copious payloads, their capacious wombs bomb-strewn

It seemed that their formation cleaved the moon

The bold were made loons, trousers were made loos

Abusers abused, confused ones no less confused, the newsmen utterly bemused

The comms are jammed or taxed so no texts or calls come through

But they are attempted regardless, I love you

Messages about roaming charges, sent at random

Messages from the emergency department, missives marked urgent

Dim horizons, this morning’s orisons shall not reach heaven’s denizens

Or drive them to save us

Most are driven insane, save us

Who fussed before the time was lost

Many hours idly waltzing

Locked up shop, stock check, count cash and smoke Carrolls sitting on Guinness barrels

Can feel it in me marrow, I love the bones of you, but it’s coming soon; maybe tomorrow

Feel it in me bones, inside my statuary is the ossuary of me

My oblique armature animates me, I am grace without equivalent

Eloquence clearly heavensent, your new scent sends me right back

Scent brother to memory and sleep cousin to death, my breath is taken

Like an obsessive trainspotter, having waited painstakingly

Having staked out, stalked the platform like a suicide haunting, took the sun then the shade of the awning

All morning and all evening, fawning at the clacking trains 

Day sieving out to evening, purple cake of latesummer Homeroceans leafy avenues

At the ticket checker’s desk he looks over the cheeky blighter’s token, takes him in, views

Its validity, smiles amusedly, the ticket-giver returns the gesture bemusedly

He checks the clock, hours yet until clock out, glad he had muesli

Mrs Murphy at this time would be in Dunnes doing the messages

Tonight it was bangers and mash, that’s potatoes and sausages

He half-scanned a headline about that awful hostage crisis

Happening somewhere beyond the horizon, wanted something nice

To rouse a smile, top ten tips for summer style, how to put your wet phone in rice

A flashing ad, probably a Virus, for a Dune mug that says Got Spice?

Chippers should have run a Dune promotion, get a Spice Bag

Get a free Paul Atreides flag, or Baron Harkonnen tote bag

Get Romayos on the blower, call the marketing team over

Got something that’ll blow wigs off, bowl people over, bees to clover

The ticketman knows all such men, he knows them name and face

They weep so much at passing trains, as if their eyes had been maced

He cradles the ticket close to chest, soon for scrapbook, gripped gentle as a votive

All day waiting to see a passing Willamette Locomotive

Worth every second, no second to what you love yourself, that which gives motive

Motorises your boat.

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People do what they’re told, taking orders young to old 

We’re too bold to have a New York portal, a porthole in front of which we hold

Pictures of nine eleven

Eleven there when it’s three here, hot lately people on the beer since the lark was bleary

In the early house with bowsies, navvies and two Garda

Two shots of hard stuff, pick of the larder, with each pint of porter

Picture of comportment, drink equivalent of Dorian Gray’s portrait

I am a steady, persistent supper, more drip than rain bucket. Pour it

So it runs down my chin like black saliva, this is Irish survival

Abhor the taste enjoy the feel abjure my chains the feeling’s not real

But I don’t fucking care at all, feeling’s real if I feel it, I steel

Grimacing after every sup, wondering if this is when I’ll throw up

Like a pup had chocolate, hands in pockets I swallow down potential vomit

About to chuck my cheeks are a puke wallet, round like someone from Wallace and Gromit

On it dunno how many days, done dunno how many K’s off keys

Bought speed off boys in souped up Kias

Latin week in Lidl means at home it’ll be ladles full of paella

Prefer Aldi but its alright 

Tonight promises it’s lingerie night

I’m at the meat parade with a macintosh, pocket dosh and a flensing knife

Steps into the only light like a Frank Frazetta valkyrie might

Takes all my might not to heave there and then, when others might

Dangerous to handle, like old unstable dynamite back when it was plain old gelignite

Nitroglycerin passions ignite within me like inner flares

You peel back my every layer, unto my innermost lair

I am laid bare but I am getting bare laid

I am barely paid but I am the highest grade

Cradle to haven they won’t know my name

Won’t know me from Adam

But they’ll scour every page for me when I am in my grave

Apollo loves an unread poem, an unheard sage

All the world’s a

Two plaice, four chips, lashings of vinegar

Text to tell her to put out plates and placemats

Stage four cancer of the ass, ask and answer

Me and my maker back and forth, two chancers

Sprung up from the book of mischief

Soon you’ll need to hire Necromancers to chat me

Dark spells to at me, blood chalices to enchant and entice me

To appear in your scrying mirror like a thing below ice

Snap back stings the hand too pulled elastic band, your man

Behind the counter holding out his hand

Pay him, grab the chips and bounce

Through an open window snippets of sound carried by the breeze

Students from the universities, parts of Unions, shouting at the UFC

Out and about, down Dorset Street, tracing steps from Ulysses

Was Bloom a mason and, if so, attained what degree

If Dublin’s so great, why’d Jim and Nora flee at first opportunity

Wasn’t for the Swiss cheese, got my own Trieste burn book

Got my own Burke and Lynch 

Lankum but once called Lynched, that’s us inching towards progress.

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A sudden darkness as if walking from the midday desert into a vast tent

The growling bombers leant music to the crickets, growing in force and sound as they hovered lower, nearer ground

They will make your shadow an icon to peace

They’ll point saying fadó fadó when the godless world had lost god’s hope

And every man was an unholy pope, and every saints’ neck sported a rope.

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Don’t usually have this problem, begging it to get hard

Worrying she’s the problem, starts to get sad

Not long before she’s mad, gathering clothes strewn around the pad

Pulling on one chequered Van she spies her crop top on the lamp

One last glance back, see her through a doorgap on the landing

Out the door and on the lam, no Penelope waiting on the strand

Barely gone and I’m burning ganj the head is gone, be grand

I can’t do nothing, nothing I can do, it’s the opposite of what you can do with kandoo

The joint canoes, a jagged split where the skins are fused

In my green place floating through, behind my mask in subterfuge

Floors I scrubbed a few, cleaned tables too, probably served your coffee to you

Service with a smile go an extra mile, got pick of fresh sossies in a pile from out the oven

But that was then and this is now. Now I am the lord of a vast, globe-spanning coven

Sitting on my tod getting blotto, watching blot outdoors show through the smoke rows

Lighter wheel is stiff, flint won’t catch, can’t light the spliff

Push the toaster down, lean my head down like I’m exhausted

When I come back up its lit, smoke coming off it

Lightheaded like had frosted tips

Unsure whether I was on or in ecstasy when I sent those texts

Midden of our loveplace, how much I made a mess.