A Tributary In Servitude 18 Cypress Of Cyrus
Gabon viper,my belly's mark betrays the path I have taken on earth's threshing floor.My songs are not entirely minethe melody belongs to someone else— I'm only a hitman for the plot.I'm emptying my weaknesses into the sea— I want my strength renewed from source; time rises and falls on mind's beach-sandsTidal waves begin their sorry-tales inthe middle of the sea, but they must smash their vagabond teeth on the breast of sands.For I must shed my old blood— rent my skin, sharpen my fangsand teach my scales to fight their talons.After each triumph on the battlefieldthe commando re-strategizes with the power of fertile calculations that turned out fatal.This war continues on the insides of me. I do not knowwhere the next battlefield will be.I am the victim of my own wars— the victor, the vanquished inmy own conquests.My heart is tuned to the script—I am the perpetual dramatist playing major in every script of my misfortune.My visions are boundless— my mission is first unto self. But it widens to accommodate every speck of the blueprint I strive to live.Wider than our views of it— the earth is not spherical on myinsides; it is a miscarriage of elementsAnd my spirit hovers above itincubating, making a mesh of elements— creating my own cosmos out of chaos.My world is an amoeban void—a mesh of tributaries dispersed for the earth's impossible redemption…Find authorized novels in Webnovel，faster updates, better experience，Please click for visiting.
I dwell with the dead who were men I sit on joints, walk on jawbonessnuff their ashes into my peppered noseThe skulls of these men is a fountain of wealth I make my own myths with the tryst-maker— the earth which waits to milk us all."Why do you write in this G.o.dd.a.m.ned h.e.l.l? it offers nothing to make poetry with?"my head is restless; my heart is heavy—I see a man-d.a.m.nedh.e.l.l of a heaven— habitualman-d.a.m.ners undoing themselves.Again, my father thunders in the deep the mountains rise; the valleys sink mountains are damsels jingling the bellThe valleys sit mourning the miner who can neitherexplore nor puncture the hymen of earth.Tomorrow extends like sebride to f.u.c.k sky-groom; may the morning-sun bring fresh lilies to my path of stones…