Alchemisland

Casting the runes

I’m always the last left standing in the room

With my satchel, gathering rudiments from shattered tombs

Descending through porous roofs into the amorphous dark stonewomb

I lick at moist fronds, I knew where they grew

Scattering the bones

Ruining the roads all leading to Rome

Bleeding, bleeding poems 

Razorlips teasing out odes

A tormented, coughridden, latter day Poe

When I get into the zone my mind flies up skyward

Like the New Jersey Drones

So, seemingly, that’s the end of woke 

And the commencement of an age of woe

Travelling back on the low

Woad, Wotan, green men and lodestones.