Alchemisland

Misery again

Sinking, like I went walking through the Lincolnshire Fen

A sheer fence is weak defence against enemy offensives

Constantly on the defensive

Waiting for something to let slip

I tighten the slip into a noose

Buds to nip, the final snooze

My head heavy as a mounted moose

Continuing tantamount to self abuse

I must self remove 

Should it be so hard to move?

What have I got left to prove

Every sight that I peruse

Dies in my eye’s scant approval

My can became can’t

All the land that I scan like fields riven by cannon

In some long ago battle, where prayerless bones were scattered

All the dead actors, all the chewing cattle and their abactors

All the crows and the newly-minted bastards

All my futures suddenly minimize, my hopes alas past tense

The brittle glass of my heart crashes, and love relents

Thank you for the flowers you sent

Save them for my grave

My back is bent, I’m leant over this last appeal for penitence

I promise repentance, I promise revenge, but promises are empty

As an excavated henge

A hopeless March

Everything over before it starts

Parting the clover, cursing what I see

Greener grass and bluer seas

At the last second, someone steals

What I have come to feel

Is mine, we mined for the rudiments of steel

And stone for new arches

And ended up with nothing, holes and ways to darkness

Desperate for a home, and parched

Another bitter argument starting

Both considering departing

Covering over this portrait of a young artist

Like the protagonist about whom Homer wrote

Hoping against hope that God ever spoke

I have played my role and been broken on the wheel’s spoke

Many many miles from home, no do-over

Stow my hopeless bones

Give me a clean grave, stones white as Dover

They spread my limbs pulled apart

Push and pull, stop and stop, no start

Fling me on the ragman’s cart

Fling on a pyre all my useless, vain art

I’ve never mastered the art of barter

I never considered this home a starter

Delicate as a silk garter

Here, bright, then departing

A parting shot, watching my coin-slotted back

As I slope from your yard unlike Lot’s wife

Never looking back.