Alchemisland

Somewhere tucked away, the rite’s subprime location

Known to vocational fondlers, perverts, and worshippers of Satan

Inside a wrecked church’s remnant transept

Half Her statue, the ducts of the Virgin who wept smashed by searchers

Blessings expire like third time seductions, we must rebeg;

Glories golden at accomplishment’s noisy moment olden to less.

I woke at a pope-pleasing bellthroat’s third try

Dreams of kissing, of overfilled flagons spilling over sides upon hitting

I heard the hiss of dragonflight nearby.

Outside the building, the moon was like a mayonnaised apple

Out of which were taken sample bites,

Drawn down by rites to spotlight tonight’s sacrifice.

The eyes of our idol are spiteful

The spritely play of hyper fire

Leant the inert some like life.