Alchemisland

They buried me in a hole for two

I prepared these routines to amuse you

On the table, black back spoon my amuse-bouche

I get my orders from a downtown photobooth

A name, a place, a pair of new boots

Just like that, like shot scared horses, on the move

All trace I was there removed

Worldchanging events that don’t make the news

I don’t think that whispering is the right muse

I asked Robert Graves but my inquest was refused

Besides in his old age, I heard he was getting confused

Couldn’t tell whether he fought in world war one or two

When it’s not the bad bad it’s the plain bad booze

I hate flying on planes but overseas you find bamboo, pandas too

Just the white’ll do, rest’s a bruise

Old shoes falling apart, peasant made pampooties

I rove this land a vagabond but that’s my tour of duty

What does Bowie mean when he won’t talk about Judy?

In CIA terms, a pair of new shoes

He shot his wife, a Greek Jew

Good and evil, evil and good; you choose

Borders, rules, boundaries eschewed

A Bic pen lid chewed as if a dog had eaten it

You sweating, disgusting slob, how rude

Junk addicted kid fucker, Tangier, you prudes

Prunes to help my bowels move

A few tunes by the Virgin Prunes

Extinguish the sun and draw down the moon

Draw down the blinds, darken the needle room

Harken harken, how it makes the needle move

50,000 rontgen, now I’m getting in my groove

I went to the store but I bought pills instead of food

A cannibal recipe, for cargo cultist stew

Remembering the planes they saw, latter half world war II

A lot a lot a lot to prove, the white knight takes the first move

I walk into the room and ask the corpse how are you

The corpse glassy and vacant, drained of fluid by tubes

The spectacled pathologist holds his knife a lot, like the Mayan Priest or the Druid

Society of the spectacle, the language of symbols

Flowers and pinecones on my altar, invoking Imbolc.