… come together.
By J. K. McDowell
Caustics are of no use against the alchemical
Torments of ones own making. Beneath the grimore’s
Marbled endpapers a formula appears.
The keyboard clack clicks as I tap out the hack of
My own consciousness. I review the code and
Imagine the bytes beneath and the lost pointers.
Istanbul artisans know the gel-git tracing’s
Beneath heaven’s illness. Despite the design,
Worms feed – even on lost feathers of angel wings.
A desire beneath insane digests the lining
Of what I thought was my inner strength. My hidden
Disposition twisting, uncoiled and unpleasant.
Miss G. says, “The place you should go is Tangier.
Alice and I’ve spent three summers there, and it’s fine.”
The demons in the desert were beneath mentioning.
Morocco was already whispering promises in
My ear, the cool burn of claws beneath my scalp.
Sips of whiskey as poem and plan come together.