Trial by Combat

Utmost disorder when I use a pen lid to scrape out the kief drawer

Coughing like soon bound for the coffin

Wouldn’t be shocking, live each day like the magazine stand

Full of Life and some porn, I of the storm darned by old Norns

Stoned enough to stymy a prime rhymer

Feel like this is my prime, every line triumph

Crime to the denier, in the Eyrie accused of bedding Lysa

Lying on the dais, someone’s flying through that moon door

And it ain’t me, Ser Bastard House Whorescorn choosing trial by combat

Forlorn, formatives in orphanages and poorhouses, beaten for lack of focus

Opening like a crocus, cats they wanna stroke this, maths I wanna abacus this

Cannabis lingering verdant verdigris grips elsewise vilely violent fingertips

More dots than a die above my eye, beaded tribal style, god of the sky, high

As Zeus reclines am I, green creed abided, my writing scree fleeing

Olympus at my Father’s cheering

End to venom

Hitting the pen until I can’t spell hell

Start spilling, bed for the children.

Alchemisland