Alchemisland

Our bleating goat we ate Japelessly on day sixty three This scant bay where no dove plays Where no plugless flow cascades Only leafless Burren A stone-fisted wasteland I hate this place. While with mind and rind enjuiced I shape In vile paces, with a lost man’s patience, A latent grave to suit my changed…

Desire machine has a broken setting dial Stuck on upsetting size queen or pissing a Nile But that’s not one of the chatbot options No humans are available today But if I would deign to tick a succession of boxes The shape of a mind can aggregate further commonplace Queries asked by meatbags facing similar…

I will be thrown from the Tarpeian Rock The fate of all traitors The flight which purports to decide between diers and angels Slicing open the light, hoping to find Opals worth tonight’s coke and pints.

In fugue states akin mental derangement, I gather and arrange smashed plates Whose serrated shards cut my artless hands apart. Mars accepts the token of my laceration as lasting allegiance; Two legions on the march immediately, The Campus Martius bleeding pristinely.

Duck down worn down, worn out a lot Worn out this fleet shield Bravely has sustained a profusity of blows Beyond the intent of its goat-parted maker. The sleekness and flow of its Greeklusting facade, I wondered oft how it was made; How loud Hippocrene’s creamless flow had been transposed so?