Alchemisland

How can you say everything is going to be OK

You ain’t had the day I’ve had to deal with today

You wouldn’t blame me feeling this way

Miserable, chain smoking, getting molested by a Jansport bag

On someone’s back on a congested train, each day is a chain

Worn where a dickie bow is made for, drags me lower than the ocean floor

I implore friends to explore other options, women to leave their deadbeat men

But I’m at home beating my meat, stuck in my own head repeating mistakes

Cringing at times I raised stakes with no good hands to play, I was playing snakes

And ladders on the chessboard, practised hands slapping together, delighting in my bands

The devil has more demands than a divorce lawyer when the husband’s bad, caught bang

To rights red-handed, go through a man’s savings like a bandit and hand it out to the family

It’s more than fealty and space of mind, he wants this space of mine to be his place to reside

Somewhere he can shine his light from hiding, I’m chiding myself but it’s aimed at him

He sits within and invites me to sin, let wickedness in, escalating incident

They’re on my trail like hounds near the fox lair, into the den

I go into the desert, sleeping in a kingly tent surrounded by loyal assassins

Lord of oxymorons, my pox-free odalisques get their rocks off in front of me

Women with soft cocks imported from realms between grind my staff

My court wizard uses his finger to draw glyphs in ashes, then removes their traces

Sending them to the placeless place, where they can be conveyed to greater reality

A stage eager for wordful players, life wanting command loves obeying

Nothing constrains the possible beyond the host’s ambition, the most

And the least, the stocked parlour and the scant, roach-conquered kitchen

Both are things wished, things held within, we ignorant of our wingspan

Of wellsprings and washes, waves infinity considering pillaging the coastline

Rivers slithering through footless passes, reed-choked marshes, marches

Skinned trees the pie of parchment, their lightning liveried arms striking, spine-coated

Full-throated as a viking poem the wind moaned doleful odes, all the night things

Robed in the might of their greater night eyesight crawled, the voles and moles hiding

Frightened, frightened for their lives, taken by the nightbeak, shrieking shrikes with

Knifelike beaks, blackened peaks speak to ancient giants sleeping, shoulders

Pauldroned by oak-topped hillock, his head is but one mind belonging to God

With hod we cleave his flesh, the clod and the bog his form embodied

He hosts and loves the corn, the blood he drinks ensures stalks soar

Golden stalks of golden corn, the boldest given, fed to loam, roaring blood

Even God hears, louder than Abel or his mother’s tears outside Eden, floodless

Rainless earth in its wailing teething toddler era, no tears either, tiered seating

When they finally apprehend me and entreat me, bid me repeat my crimes

Eagerly I respond and tell a tale for all time, I tell tall tales growing in telling

Their willingness to listen impels me to keep spilling, they want tales of blood spilling

Of arch villains mowing down women and children, having a million mistresses

They want to be chilled by tales of his abhorrent hindrance, his pitilessness

The pit he slings his dead victims into, a deep pit full of bones and quicklime and flyblown

Bits of blameless butchered boys, toys and playthings, played with and tossed like furnishings at odds.