Alchemisland

Assisted steering drives me up onto the path

To Vanir, there are no maps to the past

But perhaps if I could just go faster

Time would somehow collapse, elapsing backward in some fashion

It feels so fresh, close enough to grasp

But when I reach out and clasp

Her image turns to ash

Scenes flying past, obscene flight path through Tartarus

Steer horn bolo tie, one handed steering blowing the horn

Smashing around blind corners to crossers horror

Shocked stood stock still like deer in headlights

I run them over, heartstopping carpool, then drive off into night

Wide open spaces so fast it feels like I’m flying for a while

One of my nails painted sable to convey that I’m tainted

But I will live while I’m able, I must vent my temptations

Which have impeded my patience and creation

Things below my station, infra dig, not so since I’m deranged

Willing to dig a bit, get mucky, fit in with the pigs in the sty

A deal with a prince from the sky, he promised me shiny

If I hit the next wall at 90 I’ll get a pleasant heavensent surprise

Supply me with guitar-based music and a car with no miles

Let me go out in style, my blood will form a red carpet

My carcass the target is painted scarlet, my car lit

Blazed when oil met flame, when harpoon met whale

I was no paler in the grave than I was in the face when alive

A few paces of vile earth, in which to hide

Until his triumphant return and judgement

My final punch up, I’m young and still hitting like a dump truck

But I’m punch drunk with hits took, a bit stuck in the mud

Chin was right up, my corner muttering keep my guard up

Young pup gave me a drubbing, I was struggling to recover

I used to need a muzzle I was that tough, thunderous

The world was under us then, moving to my feet

And they were moving sleek, almost blurry

I would curry the favour of War Gods then unleash that ill-gotten force

Down by Dundrum Log, I used to think I was a hardshaw

Some little ballbag from Stillorgan, never saw

Want, never felt hunger, no ugly duckling for this swan

Those things are trappings, and I felt trapped in there

My dad was slapping me, pestering me to cut my hair

I would go out on the tear and go spare over nothing

I cut them because you cut me, pain is pain’s brother mother cousin

There is no cut off point to cruelty, not at that age

I was fuelled by and ordered all to pain, unable to constrain my rage

Having tantrums, purposefully ruining someone’s day

What an absolute waste of flesh and life

I cannot surmise why, I don’t blame anyone but myself

I sigh long in wonderment, wondering why I enjoyed bludgeoning

And loathed so much another’s fun, did all begrudgingly

Spent ten years grumpy, making miserable all my company

What had they done for me, only everything.