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Explaining away the phantom’s manifestation
Sir, you should know The reason they won’t go is that reportedly The guards of our fortress, A telling pause before going forward… Saw a ghost at watch’s close Before their shift was handed over; That close, one said, holding his hand An half foot from his unhandsome nose.
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Walbrook Mithraeum
Barring time travel’s starry unveilment, or wormhole displacement We’ll never know how Mithras was worshipped below this pavement At Walbrook. This won’t brook our efforts to decode the frescoes in wall nooks, Brooks where flowed unctuously the lumbering blood of a missed Christ, More questions these deceptive inscriptions provide, Yet we continue trying to tease…
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Miss Lead
All night my jaw grinds All is will and law binds I ever will and do abide I think in tidy pints Or tiny tinctures of suicide.
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Blood the ground eats
A rush of blood no love, however motherly, could stanch A sounding blow drowned his rope-tied foundling robes The ground below groaned, blushing like a russet standard In abandon, Eden’s blasted heath opened beneath their standing feet Sending up reeking blasts of massive heat from Sheol’s meat-fed fires. A turf-wreathed maw full of rarely seen…
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I, Priestchaser
Join and be part my noisy fantasies In cloying daydream’s ungraspable moray darkness I chase frantically across Arcadian landscapes a one-handed priest, His wind-jazzed chasuble making napkin geese. To aid fleetness jettisoned both napsack and fleece Printing our brief melee Upon the mage-favoured leys of a hazy, laneless chase.
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Alchemisland 