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Scent of the resurrected
In miasmic waves, like orgasm multiplied Scents such as waft from corpse caves As at Bethany of the saved Lord, he stinketh in ways Which a peony nosegay little ‘suades.
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Lover’s Declaration I
Temple by verdant garden girdled Mellifluous dares divers thereheard Trees herded to queer shapes, none straight Pensieve benches at pleasant station, jasmine scented Roses twinned gracefully, chimeras dually-blazed Amazing escarpments and frontage Fruit like feast’s coloured bunting strung Bid wonder, with odd frond parloured Engrossing topiary of Her Father’s grand garden. Sunflower wheels orange-spoked, fire-smoking…
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Washing of feet
Chiropidal lavabo Feet are bathed Father clothed in Son Pedilavium almost pagan seeming On a poxy overcast Maundy Thursday Feet streaked with street debris, soiled Lint-smudged ankles sweaty from toil Kneeling to my appointment Hands purified with honey ointment Licking a doily’s corner Faecal matter, strands of hay Blood from glass, I wash away Whey…
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Why bother?
Why should I bother? No one knows My silent audience plauditless Along plodding, verb-bodied Grendel Tossing men verbosely across longhalls Howling ferociously, returning to my fen. When I go and poes no more flow from me Weeping policeman calmed at last When great heaped cone of my effort turns over to a draining funnel And…
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Poetry is fucked, not dead
Ovid for the Covid epoch Bard-throated, in word coated Sadly born now poetry is over Once open’d door, sweet dulcify The lie sweetest smelling in telling Now closed forever, a sewn mouth.
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Alchemisland 