Alchemisland

For my crimes the bailiff would pillory me, confine me for all time

With these kinds of crimes, there’s often no trial

Arrival of a mob in the night

Knife and pitchfork and sawing fire, bidding come forth

For my cavorting with important demons

For my reading of portents in tea leaves

I must be made to leave

I seek because I’m a seeker, I’m a secret key keeper

I pray, cruel Goetian lords, breed storms of limitless gore

Take form abhorrent

Come forth in vainglory and dishonest comportment

Wield plague-swirled swords

Squirrel away all the world’s hope to lost unwalked places

Bring wroth wrath and wave froth to the laughterful places

Make waiting epochs silent

Make joy’s expression a lost sound

Forgotten art deemed myth, thy hidden mace

Beneath rose bouquet, bring it down upon their faces, that they may

Rue the day they invite my rage, came to my hovel without invitation

I exalted them, inviting them from the high places, from astral graves

And they came, came as I bade, made themselves here in this place

Forms fit for mission, in my vision they fleshed, dispelling vanishment

Long banishment rescinded, they are visited by new vistas fit for sinning

What a din from within that they hear outside, they fear the arrival

Of accomplices; they do not understand my ritual accomplishment

I am admonished for the magecraft they long to master

One blast from His befinned limbs incinerates the walls

Reducing timbers to slowfalling ash, slashes of his shadow blade

Invade flesh, slicing men in half, blood conveys in tributaries

Bloated bodies of fatally thirsty flies to the lake of ichor

I caught sight of a great scythe sweeping through a crowd

From which none could hide, which none could hinder through they tried

Triumphing over the pliant flesh the rhymes of iron, the runes binding

That stave and blade were ancient even in ancient day, druidways

Or dwarven arts stayed its sharp against all harm, sharp it remained

Until the day’s demise, when the sun in hiding shakes at night

Providing sight for the crimes light dissuades

If it was mediaeval times they’d have put me in the stocks

But as it is, they flock to my rocks like shocked geologists

I flood the block with all my stock, stocks rising like arrows shot

To make the Gods bleed, as ordered by Nimrod, hunter not

I’d rather not have to front when I walk where I’m from.