Alchemisland

Composing odes, poems felt unimprovable Then awoke Drool-choked with overpacked holiday, black-soled eyes Ward without cubicle Incurable dead find here the lazaret of last confession.

I’m hitting keys Like Sora in Kingdom Hearts fighting the Heartless Things I’m seeing Befit a Lord of black art practice, far from harmless These faraway farms and purportedly-quiet hamlets. Lose face in the local and you’ll be given to a wicker man on Michaelmas I’m in rural idyll, more leaf by niggle than nickelbags…

Spikier than a bramble patch You disturb my Ambien-led ambling Or damaging gambling sessions on GG or competitors, get dispatched Get this bag, that’s the only way I access this passion Crusty better stay away from my weed patch on his mushroom rambles Or I’ll get the Rambo knife from the pad and ram it…

Unlikely those who sign on dotted lines to fight me do so lightly I want cream, not clotted kinds, want filthy lucre and fifty wives I want dragonfire back in my belly as in my windblown prime I want to feel alive from now until the end of my time At fallen Hideoaschimos’ snow-shouldered mountain…

Hitting more keys than your local vocal choir I’m getting more P from dope than the blokes off the Wire Almost choke when the yoke on the box mentions my name I’m in the Fox, tell Conchobar turn it up, shush an utterer Quit your babbling, my brow furrows because Dublin news is troubling Either…