A Tributary In Servitude 18 Cypress Of Cyrus

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Gabon viper,

my belly's mark betrays the path I have taken on earth's thres.h.i.+ng floor.

My songs are not entirely mine

the 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-sands

Tidal waves begin their sorry-tales in

the 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 fangs

and teach my scales to fight their talons.

After each triumph on the battlefield

the commando re-strategizes with the power of fertile calculations that turned out fatal.

This war continues on the insides of me. I do not know

where the next battlefield will be.

I am the victim of my own wars— the victor, the vanquished in

my 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 my

insides; it is a miscarriage of elements

And my spirit hovers above it

incubating, 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…

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I dwell with the dead who were men I sit on joints, walk on jawbones

snuff their ashes into my peppered nose

The 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.ned

h.e.l.l of a heaven— habitual

man-d.a.m.ners undoing themselves.

Again, my father thunders in the deep the mountains rise; the valleys sink mountains are damsels jingling the bell

The valleys sit mourning the miner who can neither

explore 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…

A Tributary In Servitude 18 Cypress Of Cyrus

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A Tributary In Servitude 18 Cypress Of Cyrus summary

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