Alchemisland

A conqueror’s treason. Conker season. Leave you conked Zonked out, chronic reefer I’m chiefing it and not briefly. Bringing in flock-trod sheafs, purple wolf among the sheep. The shocked few weep, nights sleepless and dark’s brief; Shock troops put paid to any vain hope of reprieve. She is my vein dope; my amazing steed To…

One ring on with the big black stone Took the rest off, signalling ending oaths Snail tendencies, known for going slow. Going through it all on my own. They can’t ring to show Love, because they don’t know what’s up. Keep shtum. Word’s mum. They never numbly kissed a ring to show the devil loyalty…

Flyblown Her cutlets. Touch by taste Her leg in lace. Thighbones, lie lows Sky-sewn rhizomes. When she is away All the world’s phrasing goodness is locked away; Kept at bay behind a punishing net, Like a ginger sandwich-filler’s butter-eager locks against a mesh. Demented from the length of time I spent inside my oubliette mind.