Alchemisland

Bricks from a derelict famine cottage

Were used in the construction of my wall

I have come to believe that action is the source of it all.

“These are reprieves”

I have been told by three priests,

None of whom were acquainted,

“For hungry ghost’s are ancient.”

After the Master’s performance, everything else seemed quaint.

I had sought and found the edge of things,

There are bounds even to hate.

It was not by even bounds that I made my evil way that evening

It was seething down, pissing down so all the muck around me sloughed

Mires abounded, bolts pounded, gales hounded

Emaciated maize swayed like hanged accountants azure lipped.

Chasing a waif through a maze of nameless graves and freighted crypts,

She strafes from side to side with a butterfly’s guile.