Alchemisland

Striving to rise above the heavy collar of my poetaster title

I believe I’m entitled to engage in odd trifles, bouts of striking

Which escalate to rifle snipings, knife fights, and reduced stipend

Wishing my Christian kisses were fissure-wrested diamonds

Miner’s lung pie flung paint stripes upon the sky near sundown

Like ley lines upon the reclining patient’s slice-time gown.

I present you, My Lady Aster

My familial essence by ladle-load, as commanded.

When I’m communing with the moon, I’ll ask her.

Disastrous for lunar views the bruise-blue city lights,

Fumes pollute the view, as in my room.

Salutes from troops when I choose to remove, the chosen few.