Alchemisland

Fried off a frenzy of pulls clasp my elastic pulse My Learish ears hearing only unfriendly jeers My friends half-horse like Firenze In the Benz, smoking full send A friend’s friend had the brass balls to ask for ends Plenty of lies between indulgent guys Fry-frenzied gulls dive spitefully toward piping chips They have become…

Black and unmoving as frozen fuel, Is it feuding dust upon my ill-adjusted aperture? Lust’s rust upon the eye, Or has some crusted shambler finally sighted the throat he’ll die to crush? To die, to love. To live, too much. My gloved life glibly lived I am he Whom just sleep eludes.

An egg nest of old helms Set in alcoves, web realms Grilled bird asylums. The awesomely silent World of someone else’s wife’s curls. Do not return upon completion, and burn this assignment, The sin of Simon, the din of wage exchanged for title.