Alchemisland

In half-forgotten dreams

When my mind is cottoned by weed

I am throttled worthy by a Hobbish queen’s curved dirk

The Great Work of acquiring her mercy

At all costs her mirth

Her lifting attention drifts in unforecastably, in starts and fits

And fitful bursts. My cursed person she illusions with purpose

She commands all my joy, all my sadness, demands I am forever nervous

With busy working clammy hands and thoughts which are virtuous.

Dreams that amply remunerated I would not wake from

Let these dreams be day’s funeral; be what life’s pen takes from.

That little scant slight which amuses a mite lessens when I am foolish

Her thorny stockings globule-producing

And mocking laughter, pride-reducing

The pole’s damp tip, in spittley spindles her dew

Dune dry now those moony dryad eyes.