Come with storm like boredom
Again visiting bottle’s bottom
Sodom’s last surviving citizen, rest got singed
I cavort with scornful forms in the halls of aborted life
Hades how many graves
In mirthless mournful surrounds, rat sounds
More squeaking than ball courts.
Take a lich road to the boneyard
Smell of ammonia and charnel, harmful miasma
Clutching charms of expiation, rude circlets of worked wire
Surplus of gorse and briar, high hedgerows lifeteeming but shadow stealing
Birds weaving in and out like dream visitors from the realms between
Tweeting meaningfully a druid’s ear throughout thirteen month lunar years
The fearless steel, blanching, passing a potter’s field full of teeny bones
Where no apostle goes, where no hearty frond grows
Where gloam glozes above a cursed clod
Bloated with abortions and miscarries.
Often maids in family way for shame would upon birth
Toss the wet infant weeping over the hedgerow
Never crossing the potter’s field threshold
No threshing, no hoeing, it is a place unholy wholly unwholesome
Neither poppy nor holly grow abundant, but gaunt stalks haunting
Like starved storks unable to take wing, pale frail things
Snowlings in singeing Indian summer September
Rats as stalk through plague-pathed London utter murder
Expelling the mundane, lulled to gothic frames by the graves
Names barely legible, heroes and cravens dead alike, abutting
Stones upjutting in climbry wreathed
The skin with gum receding, kithless appear seeming
The freshly dead instead appear merely dreaming
Coining a lover’s eyes my last shekels, sending her downriver
Poking for omen, some orison of tomorrow, in hen liver speckles.
Alchemisland 
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