Alchemisland

The sound of truth now soot in the grate, smoke in the flue

The chosen few the chosen who elect will dine on leviathan stew

The sound of boots, khaki suits, blackouts fake news, not a hair askew

Streets strewn with stamped on leftist literature, all piss and vinegar

Harmless before it lurched and ceased to be charming, alarmists

Rising alarum in the hamlets, damaged by government plans

Bandits come in and scoop up land, planned recessions

Insider trading, no lessons learnt from the celtic tiger’s demise

Sound of guns shooting, hue on water of oil pollution

A pipe ferrying fresh ablutions to the seaside, where ferries

Used reside in more triumphal days, dockside bay alive all day

With noise and bustle, human traffic, sweat silvered muscle pulling ropes

Hempen hawsers, order callers, temple men and temptresses, oil haulers

Frigates fridge cold in brig and hull, no man aboard would harm a gull

Lest storms engulf the boarded boat aborting the mission, sounds report

In that port now reminding the populace of levelling war endless

And malevolent, hell scenes, scree, scraped landscapes, horizon

Twisted line of shell-racked villages, minefields littered with pillaged limbs

Looted life, war’s knife excises marks of triumph, the tanned hide

Of mankind, scattered tribes in hiding biding time, the line has no end

The lion lends his fury to oblivion’s luring down, the livid delivered

Ground mutilated with fissures, ruins cascading into blackness

Practised hatred, practitioners of saintly patience fixed to an elevated rack

Tortured for days in blazes of amazing ignorance, monstrance melted

Unto a hell weapon unleashed from Porton Down, raining down a viscous 

Liquid colour and temperature of hot port Christmas morning, scouring

Showers breed scars, unleashed hidden powers, steeds pass pus

Torture and humiliation the favoured thrills, our illest

Wills flourish under gunrunners, puppet pundits, public blunderers

Under oath to masonic sunderers, surrendering honour to the underworld

Masked bandits in mayoral sashes abandoning cities after disaster

No one comes after, we rebuild from ashes, blasted ruins caskets

Families halved by falling rafters halfway through a passion play, passing

Bags of grey rubble along a line, men with lined faces look tired, old lions 

Giving their necks to the next in line, only the line is severed, the frontline 

Is forever stealing young men from our sight, the guns never tire

Of fratricide, infanticidal and genocidal, blood spilled fills the bowls of idols

None may be idle now, the ides have passed and reddened Caesar’s gown

The grass crown, the wand of cedar, the turned tarot card of the deceiver.