Alchemisland

I’m that boy who, because he wore trousers that he had received

That very evening

On which he turned eighteen, which him as adult delineated,

Could not board the lifeboats,

Could but bawl as they noised away emptily,

Full of women and children like the thoughts of soldiers.

The clock ticks over, you can’t fix broken.

Woken I sat up and early light made unearthly satellites circuit my vision

I stirred, felt along the sturdy bedside locker’s top, fixed on the smokes

Brought one to my wordful hole

The business end I submitted to the truthfinding pathfinding rigours of fire

Once lit, aflame like a conqueror’s boats, flame-swathed

Ensconced in wantonness, a freebooter’s crude shark confidence

And above that sharp countenance, the wilting paper tip of a facsimile fin

Pieces puzzleless, boardless games whose puzzling rules change ever

By the game, gain for gain for gain for gain, to gain

Her famed celebration, I feigned a singleton’s pricetagged charm

Presented availably, a solar infatuation invaded me

A fate which in retrospect so clearly awaited me

The garden whose paths fork, a cruel warden

By ward died crawling through thorns, to save my life

I failed to die at his side; when asked, lie.

Some things are easier to digest with time, other things are best undined

Staring into it long and hard

The sun unwinds me as only temperature’s zeniths might

The alchemies which run freely in my veins

Who lend silver wisdom to the healing wand of a rigid centaur

His phallus though a fixture of his equine moiety was distinctly derived of the human variety

And thrived on this flurry of activity, his eyes wide and wild, that nothing would evade his sight

The slurry of his mind mired many but not I

The pennies on my eyes

I entrusted to a friend of mine

Who swore they would furnish Trevi’s awesome basin

That I might return to eternally ancient Rome anciently eternal thereto all roads return

Tours detours some day the levees will break, sewerloads will be raised

Bergs of turds bulging, full of balled effluvia

Congealed to nauseating pellets

Hard as the impact of a jacked blacksmith’s best hammer thwack; tell it

Tell the world that which repulses the empty marble of the sun

To flood with wet sand and vomit

The bubbling athanor of my stomach 

My toilet. My God. The Gards are to be called

A brown blooded man with sweetcorn flesh has been stabbed.

It looked like I had consented, finally, to try The Borgias’ fine dining establishment

Despite multiple reviews from the recently bereaved relatives of one-time patrons

Assuring me, by name, that I would die if I tried a single bite

But I hate refusing an invitation.