Alchemisland

Like some Tesla tether

How well

She conducts herself

For one sent from Hell solely to succubise my life,

And torment me away from myself;

Her illusion dispelled, courtesy the thyrsus I wielded

Purse of my vision filled like a mugger’s fist at her unshielded

I saw well what the flexile well of the mirror yielded,

A hide of leather, within which a swelling sun dwells

That I am cursed to lick forever.

For her ever-dry ducts my prideless and unsubtle tears are not enough

And so a meagre allowance reducts to nothing.

Trust to dust.

To dust entrust next century’s shademakers.

Classics never get old, except when they do;

Clashes at last eroded what fastened.

From a mountaintop I spent no vigour surmounting I spied the fold,

Dawn-drawn golden, sunspawn holding motes of the Total,

In early lawn’s dewy doublemaker

I saw at once countless jars, each alike in shape and style,

What they hold I will never know.

I am merely the fourth poster

No bedbuyer, however alone, needs an emotive bedpost.

When walls could talk what tales they told,

But we chased the unshakable voice away

And what can a voiceless evoke?

It is silent and cold as the song of the eye,

Unfurtive wrongfooting along puttyish ice.