The most willing filly’s last gasp.
The blasting grasp of a bombhanded man, alas
Despite multiple warnings embraced dangerously the target of his fawning.
An aspic love.
Blown up plastic gloves with marker-summoned demon faces,
Tied off with a section of cut jumper cable and Sellotape.
Our love left behind a radioactive chasm haunted by miasm
Of indeterminate half life.
The radio’s alive tonight, the so-called braves are called outside;
In cawing lines the undefined fighters.
The suck of the loreful door, its distant vorpal torment,
Delightedly undormant,
At glorious Luxor, seeking what every dreamer looks for.
Alchemisland 
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