Alchemisland

I prefer a murky vanity

How my scratched family mirror skews improvingly

My posed nudity. Nothing of prudity

And much of crudity it has been my unimproving, no composure duty

To move cot to coffin extolling.

Outside Bewley’s, coffee Voltaire would savour,

Coughing unduly off that last end-chewed foolmaker.

Lunar pale she screams;

Communing with whales.

Like a maiden every time.

I am remade capable

A more fitting scion this neon seat requires.

I consume her mind and her mine, nevermind prions.

Corpseless search, a berth I’ve had my eye on.

An evening wasted upon the shuttered church’s soured earth

Between celtic crosses, sobbing Madonnas

The evergreen graves of never-seen babes.