What I’m about to do
Blue as Marge’s do.
Glued to my exhaust chute,
Polluted on Grey Goose and Fanta Exotic on the rocks
With creme de cacao chocolate chasers,
I call the mix the Scrooge Shocker.
Spot-marking X formed by pollution from passing planes, sky pale blue,
Exhausted recluse walking Stillorgan to Syracuse in ill-fitting clown shoes.
Queues for the play, the last Euripides, some say;
At play in the Histories, mischief-making,
Mystery playthings amazing sights between pages;
That lot, the ancient pagans, now they knew how to make hay.
Pockets full of:
Brown recluse spiders,
Burnt JFK assassination DVDs in coverless jewel cases, close to 4K,
The too-tight crown of the lost now Akkadians snake decorated,
Martial remnants, rusted and partial, from the Somme salient,
Objects of veneration, feathers, shells, seeds of future disgrace,
Two bob for the collection plate,
Cryptic clues to a lost crossword from World War Two, two weed gummies,
Old news bulletins,
A beginner’s intermediate guide to finishing suicide 101 for Dummies,
Dulling agents, on chains portraits of sullen maidens,
Hairs from the dog who chased me out of Hades
Before I could free Eurydice
From icy chains, forever beneath a trident’s shade.
Alchemisland 
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