Chargehouse be a lore stage but lately its greater hall hath made a prayer place for pagans in thrall to Proserpina
Rapine and harrying the land’s breadth
Hope’s last breath rattling like an infant’s amuse in abused maws
She of the flowers, roses prim as any prince’s manner, fearsome sylvan Diana diorama of right huntress
Ripe breast not lessened by plate buttressed by her baldric
Upraised, power of the unfollowable words scarred onto pages in Prospero’s books
They would throne the gloam-eyed queen, gorging on mysteries
Her visit induces prosody
An ageless undying aeons spent highting the right one
She is an undine
Her vast sunken visage immures
Upon floorboard warped black ore-sucking boreholes as those from which moles crawl, in colour orpiment’s opposite
A sworling bole, ceaseless hole to Sheol, in which, purportedly, swimming dead souls in prodigious shoals are discerned by living progeny as part of some Devil’s project
First erect a solid platform, from which can be performed the work of directing downward-tending rungs descending downward into the bug-choked lungs and dust of old suns which are abundant in the furnace heart of our fulgent world.
Rickety nails-sticking Jacob’s ladder lowered at battle-mad Captain Hansard’s insistence
Who is scarred, blistered and nifty for sixty three
Quiverfuls of arrows and slinger’s quick-hissing missiles missed him plenty in his fifty battles fought, evidently death never caught him
He has not been taught to die
Failure’s prospect fails pitifully to assail eyes bloated with mystical visions from prize-affixedness
He is that sort who cavorts on live battlefields as other men do in country porches, dawdling
Bullets hurtling towards, he supposes, someone else
Upright among Tommies turtling in shell-shaken church ruins
Stained glass remnant, the white and gold raiment of Saint Jude who sends us positive and prudent thoughts about the future, who prunes doubts, and preached the word of god the father when all other mouth would not speak out; he spoke then loudest, prouder none of their apostolicism
He cursed stoics and solitary solipsists, who believed all past the lips a mind-made mist meant to twist them to the Styx
For a new sun hath come, and all those things which came before are no more, else he is not the conciliator, else this is not his myth
All this he thought, musing under missiles, twirling his moustache
Everyone who looked upon him, even snipers in trenches opposite, knew he would make it back
If he copped one, a bullet would shy his lung and find an easy exit point beneath his ribcage’s last rung, it would be a blighty good enough to get him soft duty until someone spanked the Kaiser rightly enough
He takes the war in his stride, he takes time where flyblown corpses hide beneath gliding mustard gas
As if walking through an orchard and not earth chewed up by war, he wags his finger to rifles reporting as if his favourite recording were playing and heard audible, audience to some unseen orchestra as they commence aureate arias and starry reels
His sheathed steel by his side, as not to deny his hands the freedom to mime that music only he hears, made for his ears only, lonely notes, no-throated composer
Odes mortars wrote as they hyenad skyward, yeowwwwwwwing.
Men to whom natural laws cannot apply, odds-defying triumphators who survive any slaughter
A tribe has developed around him, the man of war now the godly man of exemplary piety was a story pleasing to the laity whose gaiety was tantamount to his cult’s routing of existing power structures, whose voices he drowned out with his droning one-note voice such appalling tenor; as if his asked parents, forced to answer be a taskmaster’s brandished lash, had chosen between volume or melody
Their answer was evident; his voice was hellsent
All the scraped chalkboards pent up in that shrill lilting
On hymnbook pages were sweet melodies
From singer’s lip shamed doleful threnodies
The crowd adores their hero, who has emerged from among them to ascend the highest tiers
Tears fall at his mere silent address, men and women alike weep aloud, weep to their breasts, as if they had met the Increate HimHerSelf
Long dour lectures full of treasonous notions, heresies to harass the popehood
Peons say his heavy cap which he never doffs, keeps his head intact which was attacked in battle in far Lyon, or that he was scalped by a Nemean lion
Girdling ringmail mittens, his gauntleted fist, inscribed with hundred-eye chimers from Lyonesse, marks the distance even brave souls keep from him
He takes fits he calls pleasing ecstasies, God is next to me, only disgusting sex can heal
We must peel back blessing unto sin if we are to be dressed again by Meshiah come resurrection.
They are seen aporting though they have aborted corporeal form and ‘come essentials, sporting grim lanterns with styx-lit wicks affixed to pale twigs
Eidolons hewn from prima materia, eerie and foglike, come like beaten dogs to candled bellbook
A book is like a spellbook, to look into it akin to wearing the mind of another
But every poring over summons them, smothers another attempt at keeping asleep
Induced to suicidal ideation at the notion of keeping hold of all these thoughts, which could not escape roped or ripped throat
I struggle to go the distance
I lift my fists and put my hips into it, dip to slip punches, hands up when I’m clipped
I’ve always been a bad nail but you will never see a better hammer outside wolf-mantled Thor’s hand
Whom many citadels dismantled in the giant’s lands
Or Helm Hammerhand whose rune-banded horn is sounded at Helm’s Deep before Gandalf’s Rohirrim muster to a mustard east
Coat my doublet in spilled blood like a mystical dagger with pharmakos impacting
Make me like a Roman soldier showering in dripping cattle claret before battle
Owing himself thereafter to Mithras
Fetters clank trudging, tonweight dragging slowing
Dredging tumult, tumbling coming forth rank spent meat stench
Dank place where ideamakers must reside forever.
Cupid’s philtre where lust filtered to essence induces petal-malevolent heavensent sinprevalent senescence in romantic defences, inducing moods in ex-prudes purulent and, confessing, bent over for blessing the ash impresses to forehead for howsyourfather.
Alchemisland 
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