Shakespeare and Necronomicon
all lay wasted decayed in the dust
in the presence of my wanderlust
darkness subdues what light has not
catastrophe in beacons from gravy mud
lacquered sight
twisted flight
bursting prisms from suds
arrayed ever so explicably mad
heaving and then momentarily sad.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem