Alchemisland

Channeling streams like a culvert

Got the runs drinking Bulmers

Rarely run, own loads of runners

Invites rarely come, loads of cunts

In Dublin proper

Quiet courtesy the riot-leaking blockades which have stopped traffic

The Spire looks like

Its propping up the sky.

If they could use the tip of that spike

To get heroin high by

God they would.

A death promiser’s proposal

Knock on wood it goes through.

Shrine, not Knock of cures-your-cough

Lines on wood I nose through

Five at a time five times a day like a Muslim prays

No trace, old Motorola just in case

2,000 just today

3,000 in dust on the tray

Down the sides of the couch probable pounds

Probably penal if truth got out, so hold tight your beans

Living by the seat of my pants

Advanced jeans a Norn weaved

Advanced genes

Enhanced by machines before I could speak.