Alchemisland

Thought-distended mind of mine, is there no end; no funeral-knelling bell 

Balrog-housing mine, tomb of Balin son of Fundin

Warmed to a mull, the mulling agent bubbles like rice boiling the Asian Potato I say so

Mug updrunked eclipsed the sun, sulking in my cups, sullen sulcus succour-seeking

Will no one cheer the King, soul-sucking demon

Who is dead and who is dreaming, who can know but the graveyard keeper

Loose-lipped boot sick of dirt-chewing loomed on a spade’s blade he held

He can measure six feet without a stick, he is the only man not tricking himself thick

By thinking life is fixed and without end, better to frequent this rending place, rendering

Unto the earth its due

Corpse-vein blue hue of his eye descries ivied names

Scriptures describing those who died behind shivering humps stooped to heel and knee

Bereaveds crying, they will lie but a while and circumscribed dead interned in wintered earth eternal lie a little while longer

The length of a single song that started with a Word, what it was no man knows

Its end every man knows, but not when

None the hour, none the day; such is all flesh’s way

Dismayed at loss one cannot but gloss over one’s own life

To assure Death that one is glad of not dying

All skyward sometime, for trial or undying white as marks primacy