Alchemisland

A quiet bay If anyone else ever came I wasn’t there that day to say hello Or explain the pile of ripe-smelling clothesless bodies Wailing for clay’s embrace, denoting My art’s zenith. Votives For my seaside queen Whose steeds are Stormwave and Decksweep. A cove, a cave deep Moist black from attacks of spit-kin sea…

Tight knit, knitting needle pierced your eye Carved you up, like three were having pie  Bisected you while you were still alive. Scarlet gloves rummaged inside. Playing gin rummy to quiet my running mind, considering suicide  They want to catch me, and they really try; Knowledgeable salmon, to their flies I’m wise, Coyote I’ve got…

No particular style  Something different every time Keep them guessing. They won’t get me. There’ll be no trial, no heavenly reward either. Camel meet needle eye. Lethal, evil guy, Wiping off my bloodied knife. Lycanthrope, I hunt by night  Rolled up in a rug  Hole dug in muck  Forward like a rook  Ain’t no fool,…

I’ve only two modes  Stand up guy or psycho host  Poisoned dinners turned men to ghosts  Hidden altar, foisted quest Worshipped goat the Baphomet Warmest coat packed for a disposal trip to a frigid, lipcracking coast. The opposite of boasting; a suspicious kept-closeness.