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Gun stuffed into your mouth, Tuesday evening
Lend ear, Roman Mental noise gentled Heavy mantle offlifted Bleeding earphones leak Dull sound of dumbed hummingbirds. Gimme tea no nettles Shotgun lemniscate Scattershot breath Feeling cold metal Shook like near-done kettle Making keepsakes of possessions Possessed by legions of Satan’s Chiefs. Browning Version Keats’ passion for Chapman’s Homer I have a go: his darkening…
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I will speak now
Poised with lips parted, as if to make a loud noise Mouth vouches nothing my hastening visceral urn couches Itching as a worm turns, tunnels burning Above it tumult and rumble Waked drake flamebathes corn-readied swards Forths, firths and farthings, acres and oxgangs hedgegirdling Brought to burning bubble Like boiled steel, or effluvial admix roiling…
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Proff of the piff
I am credit and glory stolen by Elias Ashmole I am mute to the floriate, strictured language of Moliére Self immolating monk, finally steely enough to test professed immortality Lapsed professor overtaxed, pressured by mounting lessons Relaxing, trying to, heaped capfuls of sticky black Chinaman’s nightcap.
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Willingly sinking
Will he won’t he Willingly sinking, pocket stones Thrillingly singing, pocked throats Going deep below Though stationary feeling as of floating Upon enfolding ocean holding my mind Emotion tantamount to its motion I am a moon Immense Nephilim brawn of Earth’s atmospheric pressure Stars above, diamonds meshed Indra’s netted fates Leant Norns by Wotan. More…
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Alchemisland 