The sea has folded, Crammed into a sack, Luminescent tendrils of filth Wriggle out from the drawstring’s Maelstrom constricting grip. Burlap weft, rough as the crags On the sides of the Abyss. Burlap warp, Basket burgeoning; The sides—a protuberance lump’d. A gangrenous rotten knoll, Trounced by ravenous shades, Tooth to tooth morsels raw, Their dripping gobbets squirm, Rich in maggot flesh. Each pale worm burst, Swollen with bile, Gorged on the humus Of corpulent viscera, Cut from the belly of kings. The bag which holds the sea Is lashed by black tongues Torn from the throats Of concupiscent slaves. Eaters of flesh Lick the bottom of the world, Lapping the ambrosial juice inviolate. The coprophagist shivers In coal-dark shadows cast By the tyrant legs Of the she-wolf spread. Her putrescent teat spewing Rank, bloody froth, Which has coated The bag of the sea. Within, a beast swims serpentine, Circumnavigating an orbit, Clawing the worn threads, Straining the tattered stitch, Loosening the fabric, Until cloth gives way, And the dragon will out.
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