Let eagles skyward my charnel at dying
Let he who proffers chaoses, who in pockets paws impending apocalypses
Who in a locket confines the scroll sporting the day and hour no man knows
He is the Word which all men know, of which Joyce wrote first folio chapter
In which Shakespeare the man is unmasked as Shakespeare cuckolded actor
He to whom all cattle walk grand abactor golden path to shielded lectern hall of actors lawns of practice
He who inhabits every stillness and silence
Peace and violence twin’d, who is skyless.
I Hylas fleeing brutal love abut trunks, sunk low in the forest
Herakles swears Zeus above
He will return me to his fetter affections, he will seek and fetch me
He will not rest until he wrests me from freedom, arrests and like a wrestler tightens me at his breast a human brooch
At his approach I cringe and cower, even Argonauts made cowards at his glowering
Powering at such pace, devouring miles, sees not lover’s face bobbing i’the bay
Pale ill day, floating further away from laboured hero, escaping further escapades
Swaying finally without dismay, almost smiling, nonviolent death most he could connive
Taking water’s silent knife, submerging life like a sounding weight
Like a dryad waif amazed overmuch at reflection, lungs came pregnant with brine
Reposed stately upon waves as Shalott’s lady.
Careening like a maiden ship unladen at Oceanus’ raging
Unmade by pugilist strays, turnfaced by blow-trading winds
Alarmed arms alofted, uplifted dropped dead, breaking loudly on deck
Doomed sailors hawser themselves to masts, hoping to outlast storm
Formless world enveloped by foam, oil-sore throat of once opal ocean
Rides for revenge, wicked goesforthroats, murderer in the moat
Casting ships widdershins with winds winnowing
Quickened ships princely christened, decks aglisten
Hissing as from pitted serpents servant to liege lords hoarding over oblique churches
Seas quipping, none listening: Amergin, Myrmidon, Merlin, Jude and Termagant
Perseus, Tiresias, Hippolyta, Demeter, Hecate, Hera, Osiris, Calypso, Saint Peter
Wavedrinking prows foam greeting happily, child eater of Berne wideness wildness to smile eye to eye pilot to bilgekeeper to skyward scopekeeper
Charts like markings in a secret language languish in the hold
Anguished with crossings and markings, failures of calculated latitude
They keep eight running clocks to measure the time at the London docks
Rometown someone not from there once called it, haul stones from Ireland for henges
Haul missiles from Ireland in vengeance, have penned on them “sent from Cu Chulainn”
Eight hundred years waiting are we not patient and graceful because of it.
Sedge edging over templetips in brine-drank Atlantis, who sank for sins multitudinous
Of dark arts studious, they sent envoys out to Murias who furious at their home’s injurious racking plied their arts on the Irish
Perhaps those pirates the Egyptian heiroglyphs called the sea peoples were deposed atlanteans, as ride out from a fantasy seeking land in our galaxy
They came not open handed but in armed rebel bands, they came with horned helm and axehead to the realm of the black sands
Dead choking water as at Actium, rank flyblown meats sank to angry Sobek, whose pangs are ceaseless and whose serrated fangs are fearless in action
Scopeskeeper scrying a wobbly halohalf sunset
Exact hour when dawn and dusk unite, and by sight time cannot be told
Golden red climbing like a wealthy fire to the ire of husbandmen the land over
Gold and red dreams, Aztec flecked, decked with skulls and steps to solar heavens slickwet with spent slave blood, Horus overseeing aeons of warful horror, awful slaughter, blood raining and blunted staves on which are dashed first babes.
Cruel graven countenance of Crom Cruach, struck by a patron saint in dawn ages
Now languishing behind glass in a museum, you have many faces, and many faces
Stare in at you in utter amazement, imagine you glazed with blood gladly gave
Imagining sage druids reading the pages of days yet coming, hazy in the entrails
Diviners dividing flesh the vines the carapace hides plucked and ideated over, violently pried, prised apart, gazed toward at length like fine art, the beauty of mounting scars
Flesh a suit of potential wounding, blessed by the entrance of sudden assault
Wounds salted to freshen them, the solitude of flensed men suspended from hooks
Tarot lookalikes, resembling something insentient, the cruellest sentence unlenient due to criminal excessiveness
Assyrian decks whetted blessed ichor, scorned slaves pour forth their use from drilled bores.
Homer metre’s master and Shakespeare language’s lord
They would have slewn a million men, if pen were sword
Ceaseless nauseating dizzying motion circumlocution as of bodies around commotion
Fastened now gladly masts where, paying misdemeanour’s denari, took lashes
Figurehead in red-tinged oak gorgeous Athena, blazing ochre eyelids
Her mouth open to speak wisdom choking down lungfuls of cistern.
Alchemisland 
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