Alchemisland

Storm-scorning schooner sailing still despite.

I am that far out fairyfire light oft denied night hiding.

Fixed, firm boundaries foursome world-girdling.

Standing in nets no hands down jocks on bollocks,

Yelling at the kicker “no rockets.”

Patting pockets, looking for the ticket that I know I don’t got.

Waiting to reach the next stop to hop off jogging, shocking

But I make zero profits from my profligate quatrains,

And I have to take these trains 10 times per seachtain,

That’s week as Gaeilge – an exam most of the population fails.

Before one of four sprawling, unthawing world walls, vast gates

Making pale Mystery Babylon Ishtar’s amethyst menagerie,

Raised by her avatars, a task given me in bad faith; bad taste,

Like the cruel uncle japing, hoping to do away with Thessalian Jason.

At the permissible edge, terrain’s soiled selvedge, I hedge my bets

And start climbing like Jack up the beanstalk vine. Took a while

Due to my distinctly unfine motor skills. Divining I’m unfit

From the amount of sweat pissing off me, filling my converse.

I fill obliged to fill gaps in conversations, word rate hasty.

My strengths I should play to, they assign me conversions;

I’m telling sin-virgin prospective acolytes a sanitised version

Of what occurs in our lurid, profanation church.

Ascent’s blisters, gripping the rope as it twists.

Green and gargantuan, this towering Nimrod-build Triffid.

Manrealms rearviewed, sky same colour seaview, Gryphons tryst

Lifted by Puck-gifted pinions.

Eyrie from which I gander:

Measureless length, Jörmungandr the ophidian belt.

As if Sky hears us speaking, recognizes bleeding

And sympathising leaks, conquered foes screaming

A streaked and heatless sky.