Alchemisland

My face descended from ledge to waiting page

The impression-taking lake edge left behind when Orpheus wept

My deleterious dark materials in a war chest of deep trench oarfish depth

Sniff pile whiter than a polar bear’s head, see The Northern Lights for ref

Pole bearer when I smoke it (forev)

Need a pokey, spliff’s Gae Bolg length

High strength from my wily connect, pride in my promotional style

I loathe a riot provoker, though I pride myself a strife extoller

Smoke until I croak then toss me in the bin or in a hole

Pope for a pallbearer I hope

Dope for us all for life, I note

Not gloating but knowing they’re going to go where I go

At the shack all bag attackers know. Something bad in the back, Psycho

A distractingly cracked opal, hope’s ghost, her old-radio throat

My hands grasp my lapels, like a perp testing his cell’s metal during a spell.