Alchemisland

Every night feels like the night before important exams

I’ve done no revision, don’t plan to, yet am anxious

Clammy hands restless like coconut crabs on molly

I’m breathless

I scoop the blood from your body, still steaming

Drink it like a hot toddy

Hold a qlippoth shell to your ear, no sea hear screaming

HD like on streaming, meaning head’s demonic

To remember the locations of the chronic, inventing kief mnemonics

Wires inside we are old electronics, I am haunted and iconic my occultic phonics

Teach the clueless to get on it

The best trickster has a reputation as honest

Reading excerpts from Machiavelli reclining on my bonnet

James Bond how my eyes are golden, solifying as I behold

Sol is dying, its breasted black hole long resting is rent

Puts paid to the back millions I owe in rent, sorry Joe

Crime is life sentence is death, big meg judge dredd

All my bars are zarjaz, Tharg says some are too dark

I’m only interested in things which are old

I’m on the internet, chatting with a hoe

She has a foetid soul, agree to meet but I know I won’t go

Can’t ghost a ghost, she’s motioning towards me head of my host

Head full of ghosts a bullet might toast them

Suicidal ideation, I’m like a thirty one year old attention seeking teenager

Idol is graven, sparkling like mica when I use my tainted blood to paint it

Born in a manger, a life full of spiritual danger, dead in the cave for three days

Dismayed that he wants to enter, warning of putrid scents

The rock is rolled back, my death is made past tense

I died and was raised at Bethany, oilbelly raze the depths of me

In the oils I sense alarum

Wanting to escape, doing all I can

Endlessly planning, POW camp

Kept in the dark without a lamp

No reflection, become a phantom

Wasting away, welter to bantam on a plant diet

Pangs unceasing, creasingly painful cramps increasingly often harangue

I give up but I’ve already done the damage

Going two hundred, can only pull the handbreak

A ghost holding the painting’s jambs

A roast, ten of my best lambs’ fat

Roasting on the rack, potion in a bulging vat

Full of anonymous black like a pregnant bat

I swerve toward new course, the dirt of history

Today it’s all inclusivity, variety that

Offers life spices, but I know we are spiteful

If Jesus came back today, we would still scourge and strike him, nailspike

Him to a bit of spare wood 

Child of titan, son of typhon

Bellerophon makes a brilliant sniper

His flying equine ducks, dives, swipes

Chimera found plugged after a drive by

Three demons each flying one third of six hundred sixty six miles

Two hundred twenty two, I’m stuck in a loop like glued during Pilates

Drinking five quid venti lattes twice a day, wondering how masterpieces are made

What I wish to say I fail to convey

I spend all day writing thirty pages

Treatises I’m nailing them to heaven’s gate

Ninety nine of them, sinners long line of them

I lead them to the tunnel, going under

Like I had marrow and brother needed a donor

My self is a soul donut big hole at the centre

I’ve got that dog in me, sirius about Setanta

I have a centaur teacher as my lesson planner, Nessus of Atlantis

I fail my lessons and panic, my ability to sit down lessened with leather

Afternoon in the paddock cantering after me, clattering when he catches me

So much broken glass, lair like the brinks centre

Holding the razorblade thinking, ever lingering

Too afraid to enter despite what the phantoms you send tell me, malingering

On my life’s peripheral fringes, alluring and blurred like blindness procured

Epicure how many courses at my feasts, how many beautiful ephebes

Have come from Athens and Thebes, Delians in league with sea powers

They’re here to see powers, seated on the throne glowering

Anyone arrives late won’t allow him in

Peons prating, unholy din, for patrician life they’re practising

For better climes they’re petitioning, kept from me partition

I’m lost in perdition backtracking through grey ashes toward purgatory

Soul sold for glory to smoking one on a boned throne, how many times you heard that story?

Smoking doobs to grey ash, down to the last

It burns fast, turning the roach until my finger burns

Six centuries since I last smiled

Sweating crackling

Rains a bit, feel it hit my back

Dripping that’s drooling, Yahweh

All hairs on end like relaxed in electric chair

Sarah going into hard labour in her nineties

Imagine an old woman giving birth, frightening

Lagging behind, like the line was to the hangman

Cold hands warm heart, outerfingers gently trace my cheek and jaw

Some dead grace lingers after, crows chase the corpse cart cawing

Speed decrease, deed steeped in water tabula rasa

Life’s lease concluding, white cheeked moon aloof

Half the roof was soon coloured like a melted marble

Masked felt a hand grip my arm, slips on the noose, slung over the arch

The hangman’s art, knowing at last who thou art, thus depart, hoist petard

Snapping sound of my neck retarding impossibly

Hoping for a clean break

I moan at the rope’s zenith, moment of life’s taking

Strangling pagan, like a painting on a tarot waite ting

I’m the waiting room of the Christmas Carol

I’ve got barrels full of mouldy old anger

Three ghosts due to show me how my hang ups

So long without improvement have formed a hard crust

Over my goodness, at any prodding out rolls the pus

Dumped; they’ve pushed the date further in the month so I roll another blunt

Punctuality is the essence of good manners, but these are inessential, man-ish

I’m all set for lessons, restocking my ambition, a single hit and that vanishes

Swollen tongue lolling out my mouth, end of poems and prosody

They pry apart my altar wearing hazmat suits, Doom II