Alchemisland

Caped crusader, to slay a dragon you must feint using your wraith blade

Black magic attacks taxing the faith of Saint Patrick, tragic fates await.

No traffic so the sad sight in the rearview fades away the further we travel

Horse innards unravelled and bashed flat with a crooked judge’s gavel

Menstrual blood and breastmilk that’s half cheese, kraken caviar

Spirit cooking, astral projection’s like VR

Looking back, trackside onlookers becoming nervous at my glance

The owl of Minerva took me beyond knowledge

Howling out that I’m determined

In tournament with the sun, the serpent with the son

The sermon full of puns, pushing aside the servile manners 

Of a serf crushed by tithes, I am the surf which crests the tide

Breasting the waves, the spirit much decayed since the days of creation

Skating along the deep, Talladega speeds; it’s not night yet.

Canis Major, cans and twenty Major

In Tallaght more these days

Taliban how everybody hides their faces

Tell the van with satellites and listening devices that it’s bait.