Alchemisland

I’m Mars-led martial Klingon

Lieutenant Worf, Michael Dorne

Forehead like a Mars Bar

You’re more Ukko the Dwarf

From Sláine the Horned God

Trying to see Nest’s breast 

Obsessed, chronicling accomplishments

I smoke my chronic without accomplices

My iconic tonic gives me complexes

Before long I’m speaking with more complexity at the conference

A woman tells me she wants to have sex with me, I admire confidence 

Clothes off like they were cumbersome and we were overencumbered 

We were under and over covers, tarot card lovers 

Smothered in flesh, meshing with another

See your name on the monitor 

Almost shoot the computer 

See you praying during Hanukkah

Practising jew from New York zoo 

When the suspicions of the truther movement are proven spurious 

Injurious internet connections

Life way worse since likes and mentions

Post pictures adventuring with my wife

Somehow less if it’s less than five likes

Performative posting 

In on the joke feeling

Exploited by demons

I remember when nothing mattered

Back in the 90s just before it happened 

Clothes were still baggy 

Connections still laggy 

We lacked looks and good fashions 

And were happier for it 

The beast’s mark on every forehead

Dark Sister, my wyrd and Mordred’s 

When I sleep I wake in Lordran 

I ran so far away from where fate would take me 

Shake me awake find me inches away from where I first set sail

The wet shale still in sight where she sells her shoreside shells

Intelligible tintinnabulating 

Bouncing like a stray shell casing

The self-chasing snake tail chewing

Failing to solify a human 

Alchemical goal gold mere rumour 

Here I say all is vanity and self serving 

Hearsay and honest say flirts with heresy

Underfoot weed-wigged shells shatter like pebbled mirrors 

The lover under the window 

Under her influence 

Casts stones like one sinless 

They sail aimful through her casement 

Hissing, silence bidden by the place adjacent 

A neighbour shows his face closely cropped with a razor

Only her doc leaves can mollify my nettled spirit 

The rust sprinkled metal of my protective fencing fell at a prod

Nature is my Book of Kells 

A word of denotation for each thing 

Every motion, angle and tangent thereof

Habits underpinning it all, hidden pattern 

For everything we have grammar

Reading trees, lines between 

Bee-spat missives on a foxglove’s ear

Leaning in and better hearing

Dryads delinquent englitter the clearing 

Cleaning my evening of need 

Return of that ease with which I speak 

It is like disease leaving me 

No one but me deceived me

When I fled from you

It was the mirror’s view that flew me 

Gandalf demanding fly you fools 

After handling a Balrog

Handed his pansy ass back to him 

After Balin’s tomb, Troll I 

Not Troll II

They’re eating her then they’re going to eat me oh my gawd 

You can’t piss on hospitality 

Not in my house, the house of God 

Someone said he made for Paddy 

The mixer, pick and hod 

So he’d feel badly on his feet 

It only made our back stronger 

For England’s eventual defeat

Waiting seven bells

One knell each ring of hell

Wondering will I wake again, only further.