In the Alchemist’s Kitchen

A poem inspired by the painting, ‘The Alchemist’s Kitchen’ by Leonora Carrington.

In the Alchemist’s Kitchen

Her charged table attracts seekers toward it like a magnet pulling in iron bars. Beast-headed beings, they stand, linked by fingertips, around the lodestone’s veiled field.

Unlike the king whose corrosive touch burnt water to bullion, gold is not their goal.

This séance comes together to reverse polarities. Positioned as compass points, they drink charmed solutions from crystal goblets.

As the bewitched air transmutes to a quicksilver rose, whispering its melting secrets, the conversion is activated and these omnidirectional forces conjure up a spirit ovum.

They place this ghost-egg in parenthesis where, the words of an incantation, fluxes of winged insects, flutter about its gleaming shell.

They do not know what horror they’ve unleashed. This voodoo seed is a booby-trap! Countdown commences. As the timer’s decisive zeroes click up, the pseudoscientists scream.

Flesh melts. Bones burn to sticks of brittle charcoal, bodiless cinders, bomb-shadows.

–

Her calm chair repels finders away from it like an anus pushing out soft turds. Bird-footed objects, they lie, unrelated by toes, within the swab’s overt ignorance.

Like the queen whose gentle separateness froze fire to plastic, silver is their indifference.

This conversation falls apart in similar convergences. Lost as constrained antipathies, they express unlucky problems from organic ridges.

As the repellent earth maintains a constant weed, bellowing its harsh explanations, the stagnation is ceased and these subordinate weaknesses dismiss a materialistic sperm.

They jettison this human-seed in focus where, the numbers of repulsion, stabilities of crawling birds, dither within its leaden kernel.

They know what delight they’ve contained. This valid harvest is a release.

Arrival terminates. As the uncontrolled insignificant infinities rattle down, the technicians murmur.

Feathers solidify. Blood freezes to stones of robust pulp, concrete reconciliations, pillow-shimmer.

 

 

Kriegfart

‘Hang Out Your Robins On the Kriegfart Wall’ was a favourite marching song of the Chimeric legions.

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The Kriegfart, or ‘War of the Broken Wind’, one of Chimerica’s most devastating civil wars, was brought about by an incidence of flatulence.

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Several of Chimerica’s most devastating civil wars and/or natural disasters involve incidences of flatulence, but on a less intimate scale.

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When the Ambassador for Monster Island released a radioactive anal blast that poisoned half the Chimeric cabinet, war was tragically inevitable.

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King Stang’s eructation during a state dinner accidentally punched a hole in the space-time continuum, but that posed a more existential threat.

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What they actually fed the Moth People’s Emissary, causing a decade of diarrhoea and aerial bombardment, was the subject of many enquiries.

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The Kriegfart began with a follow-through by the Duke of Matted Further. The Chimeric Queen’s resulting witticism led to the war, the wall, the collateral damage …

War for the Planet of the Magic Monkey Trees

The incoming Chimeric administration has promised to renew Chimerica’s infrastructure of Magic Monkey Trees overnight using ‘tragic beans’.
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Making Chimerica’s Magic Monkey Trees great again is going to need a lot of ‘tragic beans’, or, as experts call them, Radioactive Ape Turds.

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One thousand space monkeys who’ve been too near the sun then dosed up on ‘Doc Moreau’s Patented Hyper-Laxative’ are being released as we speak.

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If you see a singed interstellar singe (that’s French, Tish) taking an agonised noctilucent dump in your garden, Do Not Approach!

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The Magic Monkey Trees will begin growing almost immediately after the groaning, and should start cropping within days of the crapping.

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Each Magic Monkey Tree will look like an auracaria, but instead of cryptic crossword clues will continuously generate more and more monkeys.

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The monkeys though initially cute will rapidly multiply beyond our control and rip everyone limb from limb thus fulfilling our manifesto promise.

Hidden Moustaches

The hidden moustaches are in the houses.

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Please note it is not that the moustaches are hidden in the houses: their hiddenness precedes these (and possibly all) houses.

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Though the hidden moustaches may in addition be hidden in these particular houses – our information is not clear on this point.

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It’s possible that, as part of this further hiddenness, all the hidden moustaches may be in one of the houses, we simply don’t know.

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It is also not clear whether or not this further hiddenness is an aspect of the original hiddenness or a new and separate hiddenness.

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Perhaps the boy told to move the hidden moustaches to their new safe house or houses was inspired by their secret history and hid them.

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Much about the hidden moustaches, such as whose face or faces they once graced, or are in the future intended to grace, remains mysterious.

We may have been misinformed: it now transpires that the hidden moustaches could instead be in the horses. Please adjust accordingly.

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Our sources are unclear as to whether the hidden moustaches are in the horses or on the horses, though the latter seems counter-instinctual.

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Queries are reaching us as to whether the hidden moustaches might be made of horsehair, thus allowing them to be hidden in the horses.

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We must stress that the hidden nature of the hidden moustaches means that we can have no idea what material if any they may be made of.

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We could be surrounded – nay, immersed – in hidden moustaches at this moment, and our understanding is, so well are they hidden, we wouldn’t know.

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Queries are reaching us re whether our use of ‘nay’ was a hint that the hidden moustaches were definitely hidden in or on the horses. No.

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Please be aware: the proximity and/or scale of the hidden moustaches may interfere with our reception of both information and/or queries.

.i particularly like some things .

some shapes & ideas. old atrefacts endured. certain

mitsakes with spelling. enjoyed the work seen recently,

backwards applause while others kniw wire. the garden

tools lined up neatly needing the white wash wall. ivy

clinging.

 

i will watch the film on perception tomorrow alongside

another. red & white.  they say it will change my life.

 

meanwhile i prod boxes.

sbm.

 

sbm,

 

 

. a man who said nothing .

hot fitful evening.
wine and itching skins.

enigmatic man. again continued
the interview. good teeth, skin aging well
despite the sun.

he answered questions
beautifully, mysteriously sayng,
that he could say nothing
about most things.

he may have been
a spy, for the cia.

it is the royal welsh
tomorrow.

sbm

.. cooking carrots, and thinking of belief ..

orange.

it is a source of inspiration, and research. it is written, yet having writ. we use. imagination, add a dose of suggestion, slightly thinking this is fact we do not move on when perhaps we should. so moving on quickly……

cut them.

maybe we need to check our numbers at the end, see if one or more are missing.   need to count them carefully, one side then the other.it is all a pattern, that keeps us safely, leads us onward.

simmer them.

what about this list, to do it before you die, well as she said, you probably can’t do it after. some may disagree – another belief. we try not to judge, yet that  bucket was not worth five pound,so

we paid two.

strain them.
ready for later.

sbm.