Alchemy

Inside these walls, I wait past dark.
The shadows steep and over-brew
long before I move a bone;
I’ll never return to mother’s moon.

Star and night, my bench flakes off
cicada shells and sunflower wilt.
By Venus light, it’s a driftwood throne,
an old carob bullet firing straight for the sun.

The air like ink collects and cools:
it is the black throat where braying forms,
and where shady gardens melt and pool;
absorbing the ghosts of cigarette-waft.

These onyx planets swell and bloom,
and metabolise like sheer witchspells -
I turn these crystals to my core
And try unlearn this spiderweb gloom.

Former days contort through tremulous fisheyes
relapse at the bottom of two emptied mugs.
My disfigured mass quakes in its past,
crumples like a demon husk, roadkilled in a dream.

How many molts with their veiny dead hues
do souls need traverse, an urbanex sulking
through concrete petals, ’till our sin
becomes sarcoline, an imperceptible solute?

Electromagnetic eyes to lick me clean,
the way confession booths soothe.
Hunting for the Darwinian clue
Inside the syrupy dark of every you.

The world is mocked by a brooding silhouette
enveloping the flesh of every veil,
the First Mover’s pelt, unfurling arms like soft banners
beckoning to climb the warm rumor of your nest.

Where fairy wrens and white doves roost
on featherbeds hiding matryoshka eggs
of forever gems and God-ripe dust;
tiny temples where rot turns to gold.