Alchemisland

White stones foam bright. Snow mode.

Flying light. She’s blue dyed, phone light.

Open holes. Low rise. Ozone. Open goals. Slow high.

She peels down. My note rises.

Feels my pealing soul, calms me down. Gown wound of eaten iris.

Ball games. We’re fucking rough as the wall game, Eton type.

Easeful. Peaceful. Painterly. Can’t please me enough type

Can’t get it roughly enough and I love that. Insufferable lust strikes

With the hour’s regularity. What I could do with an hour. What barbarity.

I have no time for whatever overposed rhymes

These other overblown dime Christs are parroting.

Dangerous downward spiral relents, rebounds. The weight I am carrying

She takes. With flame-stabled lancet she scrapes away my carrion;

A decade of harrying, of constant parrying. Now my hair is being braided

My brain is being invaded by waves of feelings of greater safety. Satiety.

Spiralbound notebook redounds to her tortoise love’s alluvial topsoil.

The hero, his foil. In royal hues a month’s toil. Oil boiling fumes. Stop Boy

Becomes Go Boy. Turtle doves hurtling profusely

Towards a purple oven-sun, diffuse as effusive.

Loosening such that made useless my rusted armour; all my harm rumour.

Elucidated by her hallucinatory charm, the jarred snake she makes me;

I was illuminated by her puce moon’s humour. My chains are removed

And just in time because I’ve seen the signs and Ragnarök is due.

No more to thwarted. No more falling on swords. It’s all for you.

Unzipped and all warted. One lick I’m sporting a snooker cue

Again. When we talk it’s like scoring,

Again. What they make of men;

What men make of them and say to them:

Menhirs, pagans, Amon Hen. Amen, again.

Signs to stay here, satyrs, Satan’s henge.