Alchemisland

Blood, too, can glisten like the gold of old and whip-eager histories

Sight alone cannot decode all it holds, one must taste the mystery

Exalting His bodiless throne

Thousands of bodies thrown over the castle walls that night

Delighted, He who smites hope

Who denies the death-horny their desired rope

Which he mounds in ample provision

Great coffers hold the hoards he stole

He wears horns, or appears as a beautiful youth, or produces as a storm

Or sniffs furtively the eagle-circuited air as a straw-haired vole,

Or orates heretical and inflames, all gesture and hypothetical,

Arguments framed around potential maybe possibly situations,

Impassioning the awakened deranged

As a trained prelate in holy robes

Or as a demon full-fledged with bared flesh showing.