Adam apple in throat caught claret-handed, snake a-shoulder
She asked was I holding, already knowing from the capacity of my coat
She sat on said coat in my cold colt Peugeot, left it sticky, spilled Coke.
Dog days living Cujo close with the blood-coated and deranged coterie
Endeavouring to leave
Measureless nebuchadnezzars of unpleasant ouzo
At bold and leadless Gellert’s Grave.
My fuel consumers zoom like warhorses at spurred shoe inducement,
In astral communion with formerly-human poetic great Robert Graves.
Alchemisland 
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