My happenings are acted out without prior arrangement
These scattered pages tasked with fashioning passion’s maybes.
The heath the witch keeps is breeze-reaved, wind-blasted
Cascading back sable-rapt from a labia-bathed astral bath
Where with gay abandon we dallianced like famished rabbits.
Matrices. Knocks in crowded threes upon my door’s laboured teak
This impatient comer’s fated arrival recolours my glumgone Bible’s creed.
Alchemisland 
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