A Tributary In Servitude 2 Testamen

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A Tributary In Servitude



A Tributary In Servitude 2 Testamen


I. My memoryis a myriad of shadows, dark wailing shadows—A thousand needles hide by the edge of its eyeShooting raining fireas if I killed the Jew.Sometimes, it turns serpentine with bra.s.s sinister fangs crawling speedilyTowards my future— a young ripening yolk terrorising me.The raw calibration of earthquakes on the blood of my marrow may not baffle you when you come visitingTender as they are.For they are not a tourist's attraction;my witnesses are the castles of human tradeThe woe-road to the courtyard of h.e.l.l, the thunder slammed on the Richter scaleand a legacy of black wailing sinister shadows.My spinecreaks to the weight of a dangling truth:G.o.d speaks in forms and shadows I did not fall from the skyor sprout from the depth of a sea.I know my mothermy mother knew her grandma, and great grandpa was not an ape.Remember,there were splinters hungry longbefore I was born by the crucible of a forge—Saved from the alley by knives and 'septic gloves whichstill laugh at the strewn path on mother's wombBut I will be ready for them in a blinkhaving read the truth in voices of the wild and garnered further lights for the testament of my soul.II. I slaughtered many moons working miracleswith crisps of smoke.Empty pans litter the fireplace mother, the sweltering-bone arched father, lonely in the absence of beer.Pants were naked baskets, prayers were fixed deposits

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awaiting maturation at trinity's court.Turning towards our tragedywe called the priest-diviner a fraud deprived the vultures of our mite.We had scrubbed our home with indigo dye simmered the store with the first urine worms would not stop biting our feet—Worms would not stop dredging our feet. A million shackled feet long to be dead, desperadoes gun for the porous borderEpitaphs outwit smiles at the home of friends, nothing has happened to the hungry schoolboys looting silver from the courtyard of the G.o.ds…III. I had looked the sun in the eye when it was golden at its rise;the sheb.u.t.ter wept on the eve of its shine
The vagrant salt lost its essence to rivers of affirmation.I had pressed my lips on morsels of starchSuckled till swollen my left fingersI want to suck my right and conquer the bowls of oil and pepper.I want to purge my sh.e.l.lof wailing-wandering splinters to liberate my freedom—To scratch a conscience of steel till it yields its blood;I'm weary of convenience seals—I crave the Patmos experience to sharpen my conscience;I have seen the sea, dwelt on the lagoon.I want to clothe my strength with your blue paraphernalia lion in the ironSo I may smash the medalsof their pride on the moonstone at Eden and stir up the G.o.ds!They said I did not witness the baking of a night—I cannot traverse without their moonlightThat their landmineshave claimed a million men who drew daggers at their wits.They have forgotten they have forgotten they have forgottenThat like the scheming of a rat, like the scheming of a termite and like the longings of the deadThe tortoise has sownall her beans in vain.My heart rumbles on the anvil beating to the calland since they desire a signIn the neighbourhoodI'm the tree Akalaudoand never shall shave head to the floods.IV. Now man,O man, listen.Open wide your arrogant earsMy heart is a talking drum resplendent with soulful blues—its message is rain, its message is sulphurIt is a quickening spiritburying we-men on their knees beating the dumb's tongue into sword.Beats swifter than a weaver's shuttle, who dare dance its beats?A chance dance, a chance deathMy gong rakes up your corpse— my fathers dance its astral beatsI can see them on the threshing floorWhen they tire the vultures cryI burn the bones of settled old wines for incense I sound my heart-drum— a proverb stillSee how my mothers are stamping the earth it was a night like this that gave me birth; tutored my gamingAnd nailed my suckle where it hung clockwise on frontiers tosabbaths of white-light…V. Let it reel— it is not this oceanthe tortoise will boast of damming for the irrigation of its sh.e.l.l:Ultramarine ladder, step-stone, drifting border-post and none can claim its holy place—the throne of my Father.Offspring of a broad-blue-truth linkingthe red soil of heaven to the black of earth— gleefully the river meets the sea.The river, the river, which has no handsthe river, which has no legs, which draws no net the-gently-flowing-river-in-the-woods.The river-snails will have their fillthe young palms shall not shed their leaves, the hills will swallow the laugh of death.Here's the food-drink, favourite of Obatala; coded hands will be red with cam prophets will be many in the land.The silk-slippery-spring-in-the-woods distilling the lemonswith my sieve of sands;Meeting the signatoriesoverwhelmed by far lines of the G.o.ds,can you strike your head against the pantheon?Vibrant, yet in a season of drought bubbling to music fromthe khalam of the callerYou can sound my heart cryptically too I, the tributary in their servitude—for I'm eager for the next act...







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