Category: Filí my pockets
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Barleycorn
Grave-grey unendurable today Angel-braved heavens above revenant-made henges. Oh, to return to that ancient day Made vengeful by saints, when they were raised! Oh, druid whose crude glaive Drew forth yon farthing’s fuel; the graze; Elysian hay.
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Challengers
Skellig old and lonely as thrice Mouldy bones rolled, futuretold Moss-robed, the road’s toes lit by torch holders. Heaven’s tossed rope I could not climb due to sore shoulders. Scratching layers off finger-flaying razor loam, seeking a lost poem Which telling grew. I hear longing sirens singing in longer Irish spellings Map-filling stag roars. Split…
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Longinus’ pilum.
Dipping my quill into a rip On Christ’s side before casting diamonds swillward. William Tell me what I must do. Choose the yew that I must fell, my axe chews Producing vermillion, which like candlewax to shaft resins the handle. Puce lantern, I scan the cubes. Fume-ored my orbs, orpiment fused. Soaring to warned-of heights.…
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Production line
Coming through. Cutting through illusions. Odd. It’s coming true. All I write. Near-blue ink sere-seeming distinctively alives my rhymes; Writing, writhing seerlike, by candlelight Wick littling as I trick light into lines. Miscreant shapes, feline schemifiers. Jack Greys scraping my steamified casement Scrapes from the basement. Shades or perhaps a griffin’s shape upon the cabinet.…
Alchemisland 