S4- Reading from book of Iz

Yes. Iz the crimson yacht swinged were anchor. Without flutter of an acid sail. The moon spreads over everything a thin silver. My one mission to kill the papier-mâché Mephistopheles. With loose dirt in my chest, finger holes poked I spit, molding a formalist coast. Boarded by dangerous red surf, I bereave as if mother nature herself had tried to ward off intruders. In and out of rivers, streams of death and life. Those of Iz, whose banks were rotting into mud, whose waters thickened to pestilent slime. Invading the contorted mangroves. While studios get raided. The machine get clipped, and the anchor off the seat of the government. I attack, from a sinister black cloth. Assorted forth. Pilgrimages amongst, hints for nightmares. We live and dream alone. I'm out for homage and skeletons folks, like ivory hunters. Still Cambodian, tiger land my board of call

Thank you. I'll be here all week