The scribe is tired
Late now, long past
Lyres of morning scorning night’s sultry castanets
Wired like a steampunk wedding dress
He casts out nets, hauls them in and finds abominations within
Ten finned or no-finned supine writhelings writhing on his wet deck
What had he done to deserve this, cruel tithes
Shark bite into his wages
He is forced to fill pages
In the hope that prose will save us.
This is my confession
A room was hired, to which our Scribe retired
His tyres turning until they smoked
Smoking until he boked, poking baccie back in
No smoking room, joked his host
He dives, seems gone foriver returns Jonah bible decked with weed-wigged pearls
He works his hands to the wire, his turning wrists are heard to grind
Like an anxious sleeper’s teeth when something latches to his mind
His face like one hit with blueberry pie is pied
Two purples; his wire tied around a coral stack, he almost died
No one had noticed, up he had floated only by the Will of the divine.
Poemmaker’s fist
With ringfront impressed
They do not show love
Love you cannot show, incest
He has twenty six subscribers
Not even one for every year
The Scribe is tired
He needs love expressed, King Lear
He unpacks and leaves neat piles
Of himself no one dives into
A few crocodiles, crows, carrion woded
By his nakedness dive, dine onto.
Alchemisland 
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