Alchemisland

Bad habits and karmic balance in constant battle, sandwiched between

An almost silver darkness with the sheen

Of an oil-drowned gull, and unreal dreams of pleasing readers

Hard pull, either path leads eager fool to seeming disaster

Harder pull off the baseball bat, laced tastes of antimatter

To perfect my art

I gave in blood a raven pool’s requirement, older than Zoroaster

Mastering pink flame, the white in my parlance is mayonnaise

Parlour tricks I can take a chunk of couchside change and make a brick

Soul exchange

That bread you’re breaking

Is his flesh? Sounds pagan

Dark names and their blatant exultation

Surely dire times for saints

Their own prayers asking for prayers

And God doesn’t care

This world of ours is nothing to him

Perhaps he has spares.