Alchemisland

I am doing what I am doing

To please a useless God of ruin

Undoing’s odd progeny am I. At noon

All the prodded mooers gather for cud chewing.

My face warped by a spoonback’s view

I am rhyming my wine-dark bruises

And poisoning with metre’s meagre flourish the eas’ly construed.

I span my workshy hands across the blank banner of the moon

So cough-addled this paddled-red chest mine

That I needed to intravenously imbibe my weed.

Venus of the weeds

Since Sintra unseen

Black as what an undercover attack ninja might wear beneath

His business CEO-chic sheath. Beneath

A sleek sky I sigh;

Even beauty manifest

Fails to have an effect

If I’ve seen it twice.

With the guile of wine

I imagine wince-inducing lines

Designed to pry out

The juice of her limes.