Alchemisland

Barely any bread loss but my source is inexhaustible

Constables exhausted at my constant posturing, my muffler-free gas guzzler like an unmuzzled attack dog produces raincloud exhaust plumes

Fumes poke holes in the ozone layer

Tear open a pack of blue John Player tear away goldfoil layer and frisk my too-tight trousers for a lighter

Mickey Rourke in the Fighter how I’m in the ring ‘til I die, paying pipers to hear uilleann pipes

Chuck a fiver, got me own bag thanks

Big book of tanks a Nazi probably wanked over, Foley copy books, three copies of Max Brooks’ World War Z, a bankers pristine-spined Shakespeare folio, the prose turned his balls to dunstones 

Positions in the Autumn, seeking Falstaff

Under a false name, my staff finds the bog bottom often, my bread wears the bog butter

Omens signalled a portal opening when I born, a red ring full formed and massing clouds knelling coming storm, seen from the Coombe window

What plans I nursed go out the window when the Indo print my name, nice I’m now in print though

Most haunts, those places I have imprinted by frequent peregrination, that nation which is mine alone, which I have invented with my indenting, now is a no-go

I consider Togo but no bus goes there, I have a busker balance having sang my ballads

Count my punts like Fallout battlecaps, enough for burgers if I only get salad

I pass by the Palace, the restaurant Babylon where the servers wear caftans

Cashless captains of industry, I have big plans at the bus depot

Coast is clear, I could have true exodus far away in Egypt, Mexico, settle down in Aleppo

I lick a Calippo and mull over my calypso, my lips go orange to match yellow cheeks on a dipso

Walking around myself on tiptoes, I’m never taking this trip though

Triptych of times I missed out because I’m not the chance-taking kind

By the end I’m convinced my plans are too elastic, too drastic and bombastic, and will collapse

Remember I was top of the class in being an ass, couldn’t pass an exam with huffing gas that gave answers

Tut at the ticket booth, root through my receipts

A route driving into the breeze out of the east at least

Displeased to see they’ve nothing for Tasmania or Djibouti

I find a fiver among the clutter and ask where it gets me: Welcome to Togher