Alchemisland

To taste the SunSon, I sucked vinegar and blood from the sponge

A cackling Roman forced the wincing Christ to suck for succour.

Older than the bog’s butter the names I must mutter

Dark splutters which muster summonable others.

When She sings, however shrilly, leathery wings begin to flutter

In some divorced and gushing void

In our path, slabs of solar slag like fallen flags, for the sun had shed its skin.

Beloved kinless, on this oven kiln day all men are skinless to a lidless gaze.