Alchemisland

Hillround fire crowned Rille-abounded moon slydoer’s croon to Mistcolour face ravenpaint flanked A preagricultural faith my family maintain.

Striving to rise above the heavy collar of my poetaster title I believe I’m entitled to engage in odd trifles, bouts of striking Which escalate to rifle snipings, knife fights, and reduced stipend Wishing my Christian kisses were fissure-wrested diamonds Miner’s lung pie flung paint stripes upon the sky near sundown Like ley lines upon…

Tent of meeting How must breadeater’s treat votive meats? In a way our carnivorous Lord finds pleasing. Tentative about speaking, need to know basis Nameless, faceless, code-only communications. Is there such a thing as afraid to win? Given me, all that kings have would be wasted Rot does not dissipate fresher-caught tastes.

For the last time: Hannibal ad portas! The formerly studious now permanently stewed crowded port casks Dreams of reamed flesh, fresh blood spilling as from poured flask Sad bedhopper dress dropping showing guests a ruined back, poor lass Above the mantel beside his campaign cutlass, master’s paindrinking lash My drink he ensured was poured last…