Alchemisland

Left blood on the curb 

Currant jam topping dessert

Badly hurt the worse for wear 

Consigned Her to the current 

Earlier I felt lost for words 

Knock around, searching the loch for lost girls 

All they found were fabric scraps and two golden curls

There were five of them, like the Golden Girls

Toecurling anxiety took away my world

But invited a flood of planet-bridging words

It’s Bridget’s Day, and I feel worldly; I feel worms turning below my feet

Dope fiend decade over

All day every day drowning in green like an Ian Roberts’ piece,

Like mustard gas seen through glass screens in a Wilfred Owen scene 1914.