Alchemisland

My small, dainty writing table

Knee-height to one five eight.

Facade consistent of flaking paint

Pained wrist impressions, coffee stains

Fingerprint smudges as one finds writ upon the panes of a caged gazer.

Adopting strains with ridiculous names to see whether I can coax this

Hopeless brain to produce more than stick figures. Out, coatless

The third six I asked to be shown stirs to unfurtive, certain opal.

Set to whir my internal blurting goat. She dances vertigo in a cursed skirt.

I will not bow. I will not cede. No terms will I receive. This dirtied code

Shall be what stands for something manful given my lack of soul.

I take handfuls of ancient dirt in search of certain worthy moles.

Being uncertain never stopped certainty going. We roved like drovers.

She drove, we pulled over to peruse an old and roofless church, exposed

To the worst of the winter hurt.

The determining firmament was mauve skirted. Angel berth.

Sweet, curt rose I cannot hold.

I take my pages they will take no time to laugh at or denigrate

And feed them to my Tophet grate. Hold my golded hand over open flame

I heard Flashman from Tom Brown’s Schoolday’s yelling to keep me there

Alchemical nigredo bathes the paler frailty of my wasting signaturemaker

Blisters a week weeping but I may keep this heated blood for 23 evenings.

Yet more spilled pages subject the table,

I cannot discern the good wood’s grain;

Who released the holding staples?

Names without dates

Dates without place

Their right arrangement my stable, automaton fate.