Open Time Passage (To The Cemetery Path)

 

Open Time Passage

(To The Cemetery Path)

Very slowly I weave the long hair

while white spider devours them inside,

 barefoot between pits and red dust

 towards the passage of old and open time,

 by taming the monsters of fury, they fall

all in dark black obfuscating their entanglement,

contemplating from afar how fear arrives.

The wine falls on a rune of three heavens.

Dark red shines like loose hair.

To you born of the cold I say

as the living who sits waiting for you dead.

To you guardians of the river I repeat

that the wretched curve awaits to see you.

To you, a kind of deposit, comfort, no ice...

I'm going forward slowly and slowly downwind,

the wider the straighter the shortcut.

Wet is the dark soil of the road,

Quietly the vast firmament insists on boiling,

and your smell floods the battle in a rite.

Climb on top of it and don't leave

any drops or residue,

in the desire to swallow all your poison.

On your gray face a tear is burning.

Glow alone in the vague waiting for the wind

to wash her as to her grief without shelter,

and bare life in your centre the eternal one,

for the key lies in his cursed fire

how quickly the magic dream ends,

until she returns from her veraison.

Take me where hell doesn't whisper to me

Take me where I don't have to breathe like a servant,

where the bow sprouts from the crooked world.

Take me where I can cross the floor,

where the fogs hold back the sweet bunch.

Take me where silence is my burial.

I beat the blunt iron, I scream and follow the blind man,

in this war that is taking me prisoner.

I gently taste my enemy's flesh,

throwing it dry on the desert beach.

I chew and chew without lying down,

throwing anger into the umpteenth exile,

where the eye of the one-eyed man sleeps.

Cycle by cycle I seek to free the desires,

untie them from everything I want

on the hunt for the beast of nonsense,

beyond the time that digs in, open.

So much so that it abandons it and renounces emptiness,

so much that the thorns of the heather sigh.

It is in vain, the monster finds

my confinement again.

You who harasses me with harsh kisses,

if by any fortune you should lose the fetus! prostrate yourself, you unwilling, roaring beast. Your claws languish without wings or fingers to the quacking of the albino crow. Return forever to your deep hole where you are smothered by the flowers on your rye. Between the graves I slept until I heard the full clock, I named the nine spheres until I smelled your body, I have swum in the tame hail of noise, I counted all the rows in the white notebook, I climbed it from a lost pilgrim, I sang new lyrics vagabond without a garden, and I lost the truth where to plow the perfect. I sucked the dirty flies to see in your rut, I broke off under the insect's bark, further away from the antepenultimate heartbeat, where I rode on the snakes of your winter subjugated to the nerves of the unsigned fire, tormented without night, always until later to rest on the zero needles.

Spilt brain slides in the blackest colour, fall from the top of your memory on the rotten roots of the hawthorn, by raising the branches of the mirror more strongly that hold the dark guts of the nest, feeding the feathers of the sick rook that dawns drinking from my hollow breast. Four sins revolve around me arising from the wounds of a frustrated warrior, eaten away by the fury of my destiny. They are desire, ignorance, anxiety and fear, whispering the deepest of sounds to me, that howls in the consciousness like an echo of storm thunder that hopes to have done better. Tick, tick, tick, it comes sharp from the everlasting. Good luck, ask me to forgive you, please ask me. So long for your children... Tick, tick, tick, mowing comes for my skin. So long is never so long for a friend... Lucky me, ask for it! Please beg me. So close to the open time passageway.