I am tired of spilling my words like fine wine, of stumbling through the streets like the drunkard who grey rags are stained red. I see priests standing in the shadows, their white robes gliding like swans from their bodies, borne upon the fingers of ladies whose price I can not afford.
The prophets who speak words of comfort, who urge each man to grasp his sword, their coffers are filled with gold, their bodies bound in the finest wool. Every night, they take a different lover to their crimson sheets.
God tells me He will raise their staff against them. I am not sure what it means exactly - to me, it sounds vaguely masturbatory - which makes sense I suppose: Like wasted seed, their words can become nothing more than dirt to be trod on by beggars' bare-feet. The old woman will curse men as she wipes their rotting semen from between her toes.
My words on the other hand, will produce flowers: red petals of wars, the thorns of exile, all to be plucked into a lovely bouquet, and used by a man to propose to his girlfriend on the banks of Babylon.
The priest has finished his business; he recognizes me, and gives me a satisfied smile on his way back to the temple gates. He knows he will see me there tomorrow, being mocked like a drunkard, as I spill the truth on a people who do not deserve it. These men, so discerning in their taste of women and wine, clearly can't tell a thing when it comes to literature: If they could, they would realize that each letter I speak is precious, each word worth at least a pound of purple wool.
If they paid me that, I would use it to buy the girl on that corner a bunch of flowers.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment