Alchemisland

Vilest prince vomits upon the eyeless 

Orichalks upon the eyelids of Thomas Aquinas 

His stench arises as smoke from pyres, burning tyres 

Gyring liar spirits 

Tiring lyre songs, the pile that is sleeping Cerberus 

The shade that is oldwise Tiresias, black as the sails of Theseus 

Pain wheels greased with blood, on which the living profane now the dead insane are brought to heel

Houses of unhealing, screams from the skinpeeling wards

Time wounds all heels

Altar nails repel kneeling, the repentant are deceived, receive through a false ceiling news of judicial misdeed

Which feeds false hope, the spirit’s dope

A rope so long you can’t see the noose 

Music induced in the labs of abuse

Where the reclusive fetishes are represented

Exclusive tortures bespoke to the brought forth

Resplendent bells whose fierce tongues knell as if a shift will end and all will be well, at least for a while 

Spending eternity in the firmity and security of Hell’s cells, vignettes play in the cells parallel, a suicidally draining compilation of your shortcomings and failures

When the hoofed rage, the sound of a horse running comes down the corridors to the dungeon 

Screams doppler into the distance, toppling away into creamless Guinness darkness

The proud and those who ne’er took Lenten vows, those who rowed with those they were bound to, those who hounded, those who drowned in drink, those who did not think save of themselves, those who dwelled kneeling in Rimmon’s house, the loud in evil, the mouse quiet conniver driving wedges between rivals all whilst smiling, the lemon lipped misers, machiavellian advisors, tantalisers and tantra scryers, divers sprites all accounting for crimes for which they never imagined they would be tried

Do not think he has not spied you

Hiting you liar and your hiting lies ensure your smiting,

Hated your disguises but

You ignored his ides to his growing ire

For your sin the final chagrin 

Furthest from God, furthest from Hod

The arch mind of the fiend, Hell’s archimandrite whose august mandates mould the hellscape, is an influence machine

It generates greed and such diseases, which permeate the aether 

The lesion-cheeked legions under Hathor bear a profane insignia, weeping pustules leave a drool of pus on their breastplates on which are scrawled jagged hateful runes

Silence as ever in the abortion rooms, below them the children tombs where infant bones skyhigh like Tuam

Viscous gloom looms thick, stealing one’s sense of the room

Disorienting drifts, drakes hissing misluck and having neversaid wisdom as in oriental myth produce a stinging mist 

The worst smell of piss arhinia couldn’t miss, oceans of it, xanthous waves remit urine stripped bones dripping with ammonia drops

One of the torture devices the devil has devised is like a wimhurst machine wheel

Steel fastens keep the now-squealing squirming wretched vermin in place

They are spun, racing pace at which one’s brain reducts to puce paste.