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A prayer to Apollo for help
Limn I like a land-liking siren, to the prince of deceit, who lies Sweetly. The opium of his perjury leeched their turgid souls. Hymns to He whose scrying circles Circumscribed jacinth be ivory Which exert in crying at absurd mortal triumph And oddly preserve observed light Shine frighteningly, like trialled witches deemed guilty of posterior…
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Rattler old
Once we had completed introductions He launched into a speech about Etruscan nuclear production He asked, shrewdly to his mind, what the centaurs, mischievous and wise Took for their lunch, and whether their type-crunched forms were not Totems praised when raised by tribes of riders in ancient days. Next, he came to what he saw…
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He paints my backgrounds
She stares with loathing when I dare to say The direction in which I am going Eyes rolling my erection showing A collection of such asides I confide to my file I hide my portfolio in a hole outside For turning worms and Duncton’s holy moles to ogle At times it seems close to over…
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Heat is spice
Straining daylight canine apt Balm for the insane Nailed palms fail holding onto given alms Through my cap Apollo’s lash’s scalding tips impale my brain Cutting through all dash Heat like spice and hunger and tiredness a great leveller Even mighty lions whose pelts men died to wear will age out of fierceness.
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Alchemisland 