All winds change, even Emperors can be caged
Rage unchanged since ancient today, still ranging
At being’s heart, man cart of sacred parts ill custodian
Oils stowed for such events I toss from ramparts
Around me buildings exploding, showering hot debris below
Amidst smoke, standing with tattered cloak
My name by hammerous Gods spoken, known
Merciless keen in cleaving, amarous in passions, ophidian in deceiving
Perhaps shoddy-fitted for kingship, being ill and lacking desire to o’erwill
Yet unstruck whilst those around me die savagely, misses God-willed.
My missus pores over epistles like a Bishop conducting official business
Missives and Papal Bulls in deliberation, unto sin’s deliverance
Wearing widow’s livery, in a window lip languishing like a Waterhouse subject
Awaiting fateful sable letter’s delivery
Unable to bear thoughts of losing me
Of life without me; pray return him me, God-willing
Another vouched that plea
Villainous administrator far from Galilee
Who vanity thinks himself painting’s painter, evil of higher order
At disposal, capacious catalogue of ironical tortures
Sawdust spread over dungeon floors, absorbing scorn-drawn bloodpour
Scoured flesh pored over for omen, nomenless godite of enmity.
Back to battlefield action, rattling fourscore cannon
Mithraic champion, champing at bit to rip and despirit
Chortling lordlings in eglantine-coloured mantles, cavorting far from the front
Inside tents palatial, payroll bards spitting lickspittle lyrics until they hear deposit clinks
Coffers locked, knife socked, a lion’s friendship that of a Prince
On a battlement landing, landing hard shots, point forward like a lancer
Arrows dash against walls or dance through crenels
Choking smoking obscuring, cureless wounds ghoulish
Men unspooling like MK Ultra tapes, foolish brave, two inch grave
Blood heavying a wounded man’s expensive-looking cloak
Running madly from dashed head; hope it wasn’t a rental
Helmet’s twisted metal, struck hard gavel, resembling a post-Dresden kettle
Arrows fletched in Cheshire asp-deadly pour readily into ranks regardless of banner
Defenders scant in number attempt a pincer, July’s Cancer
In answer our blades’ passion unassuaged, violent poetry made.
I have high siegecraft and speechcraft
Essence moistens my oaken axe haft
Brow splattered gorget bloodspattered, I’ll wipe them afterward
Hattermad as if nothing at all mattered
Shaking matted hair from my axehead
I am the barbarian from Golden Axe
At my clash mass collapsing, my cash the hacking
In warp spasm, Godscript mere actor; were-hyena
Weeping bloody tears from gloam-flooded eyes
Corpses mounded so high one saw not the horizon
None save I, highest that pile, king of all dying.
Flurries in fury, injurious blows which mole-blind Homer oded
The scurrying wounded staked on beachheads for Odin; come no closer!
One step more, your neck with scars adorn shall my blade Forlorn Composer
With each wave killed more come, a hydra foe, my bones ache
Fate of mine making, none here shall take me!
I compose as I cast blows, last of the poet popes
Robeless now, painted with blood, mine and theirs
They fasten to me like goosegrasses to gardeners
Until I am on the field alone, without partner or armour.
They begin surrounding me
Swimming vision causing more frequent misses
Kissed by lips one thousand hissing steels
Overhead crows weaving, coal-coloured anpiels
Back and forth cuts, fatal tennis
O’erstetched tendons snap bided tempers
Tempest abating slowly
Lying on the violent temple of many slain
Red and sordid day needing sawdust, allays little escaping blood
Around me spy three of the Temptress’ masks
As if an arbor cask struck hard by mallet
A malice of gleaming steaming blood sprays out of a man struck.
A killing blow is ducked, amok from running blood
Ground a rink and mire, boots sinking
Bogs drink down the heavily armoured
Barded horses in frothy alarum, devoured
By dessert-hungry earth, no dearth death
I breath and sweat, frayed to a single meagre thread
Yet onward press through threats countless
Salvaging myself for further savagery
Free my spasm, feeling returns spitefully, overpoweringly
My father’s wine pours from a cavity
I flee as a man without vanity, counting myself lucky
Where another may remark self deft, bereft of self aggrandisement
My worried flesh an advertisement for trying out lasting peace
Violence cleaved me almost to erasure
Esteeming neither canvas nor painter
Veering mearing crowds
Moving where river loud clouds my bounding
Until westward my home forest’s selvedge, my place and county
Injuries uncountable out which life’s vine fountains, my survival neither accountable
Nor countenancable, I am unlikely happenstance’s architect
My enemies find themselves ill-matched, my friends are well met
Wet behind ears only in consideration of death
Presuming in every endeavour supreme victory
I have kicked to heel all which was good for me
I take in cups at godless hours a carafe’s counsel.
Alchemisland 
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