Poem of the Week |1| That time out back in Ardmeen

That time out back in Ardmeen

All that is gold does not glitter,

Not all who wander are lost.

Drawn up through skin by
thick fumbling fingers we
popped out the doorway,
the exit sealing up behind us.
It was a mire that house.
Hanging in a mesh of smoke
as thick as cotton wool,
it was a patchwork of indulgences;
little flecks of spittle cornered in
caked lips, packed witches fingers
limp and slowly smoking, pointed
looks and shallow coughs, every set
of eyes a pair of wandering olives,
erratic tension cast between the gluey jaws.
We thought ourselves the nimble
fingered dwarves who stole inside
the Wizard’s pantry, fancied ourselves
philosophers, and took full stock of
the fruits of his forbidden alchemy,
which we denied, and plunged deep
into the cellophane pouches
to retrieve our salts and balms.
Ecstasy. Ketamine. 2CP. LSD.
Ghosts, lions, racing cars, visions
cast on spinning wheels of colour;
we gave shimmer to ourselves
touching fingertips to gums.
We had staggered over frayed
and soggy carpet, somewhat lost
but filling in the blanks within
the tie-died patterns on the wall
and finally egress
                                       onto the lawn.
Outside the mashing beats we let
our minds unspool, rigid chins with
loose tongues and fast emotions,
that without walls would evaporate
to fill the sky. We pressed on, passed
trees, turned the corner to the green
that ran along behind the house and
there we stood, three points of a
poorly sketched pentagram presented
to Orion for inspection. We held commune,
our minds wagged by angels’ tails and
gave ourselves over, around, upside and
through to the schematics of belief, I offered
up my hidden poems, until under the
partial light of stars we felt the infringing
chill of endless possibilities and so
wrapped up in ourselves we started
back towards that house.