Alchemisland

I’ve eaten meals whose completion is tantamount to martyrdom

Scores of corpses, strange corps of flagellants carted them

To a burning place upon the furze-furnished moor at Burnhaimlaice.

I’ve dined cold on a thousand mould-drenched trenchers

Not to have to work.

Coughing down coffindown, prophet-mouthed spiders, and vile flowers,

Not to have to serve.

Having to face the worst truth of modern day:

That poetry itself is excessive Unc slop off its shelfbest date

But the starkness of one’s fate cannot stymie creation,

Nor dissuade the patient from seeking alternate saviours.