Alchemisland

Stunting on my terms

Hulking, my good ferns

Honking without burn

Cook or learn. Stolen verve. My switch gallop-spurning

Lockets gold as witches burning

Doctor stocks so wait your turn

Topless stockings. Stopless rocking. When she finally turns

Up Irish, she’s getting turned out unquietly, violently;

Earn the rest with your mouth, girl.

Inhale the pilum like the bottom’s dyed with the cure for dying

Diamond diet, she needs a triumphal march of martian lights

Partial, spice, martial times

Minarets Tatar-climbed. A cigarette-addicted muezzin wilds

All this gluey resin has my fingers dyed

Acrid fumes in Hagrid portion got me ketchup eyed

Do it like its your duty, get that last six dialed.

She has that medieval style, an etched look.

Stabbing her edgeless box with my senseless docking glaive

All I need is her face. An eye’s grace.

A stocking’s swathing had me caving, came.

She’s a caiman and I know that bite could maim

If she felt less saintly towards my paint

She likes to look. Like her to suck mine before we fuck. Suck my

Cockcrow first light commences despised 9-5 slogs for most, but not I

My bided days spent laughing

Those whom doleful time spites, endless prime

Formosa at night, neon-clothed the cross lights

Up the night. Moon sending rhymes.

My runes form odes. Storm oaths.

Loaded bowls, ready to go

Foremost at forming poems

Four ghosts. At most, forty votives.

Touring stones in Turing’s old motor

Close as clones, our shade and total souls

Loud as her divinatorily cast cow bones

Frozen gasps. Asps in motion. Bell, book, and candle in motion.