Her flanking love moved as a formation of tanks does
Recreating as best she could
The terrible slaughter at Cannae, to varying result.
The banker who exulted his bulk hangs before he sulks
When the hulking market kicks the bucket.
A pulpit loud with the shouting ghosts of another’s applause,
I completed my speech skulking behind the podium.
The tanker of my veins, over which fanged legions hanker
Full of impatient litres, anger’s feeder seeds a needier race
Who scorn day; from summery juncture turn good-plundered face;
The sanguine a plaything for greater wraiths to wade in
The shared fates of things made to sate
Man’s little more than a glass of wine who makes plans and whines.
Alchemisland 
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