Keef as would fill up the stolen Mount Keefe Chalice
Whose unknown maker his useless initials inscribed
Elucidating nothing thereby, in 1590
It is like I am speaking of myself, whose writing trialful
Turns many an eye away instantly, who could spite them
Such rinds I peel away, which fall in orange spirals
Are for all their prettiness little more than trifles
Chapel entrances adorned with enchanting sexfoil stars
Lawns gloried with sun-yolked marguerites sweeping
Weeping outside Eden, sky above me scarclad
Reds red as Mars, firmament barded appleflesh.
Alchemisland 
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