Life belongs to the pages of the Odyssey
Giants outwitted, porcine transformations, on stormwaves transmitted
Back to Ithaca, to my thirst-girdled missus
Knife edge edging along, miss abyss but hit it’s history
Inch by inch toward the desired commodity, primarily chronic
Certain age I’ve never gone beyond, being honest
Smoked laced grape so I’m zombied, grey crombie on me
Tudor weight upon me, pockets stuffed like hair sprigs in lover’s lockets
Dock drops, deliveries no dockets, made up shops with real stock
Looking croppy holding a trident like Doomguy holds a shotty
No old stock it’s all gone, fleeced; cold stock, feeling Ronnie P;
Pickering not Metallica’s song, their take on Pearl Jam’s Jeremy.
Alchemisland 
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