To slit the grinning wounds

from childhood´s Seven Moons

the palette stained with the ejaculated passions

(of forbidden, hedonistic colours...)



Strike from omnipotence, all-seer, all-deemer,

and haunt my severed country

with your dripping, secret games



You picked the unripe lilies,

deflored and peeled the bleeding petals

made known to me

the grainy stains, the crimson lotus

of the Black-Ash Inheritance,

the semen feed of gods and masters

The worms still in me,

still a part of me,

racing out from leaking rooms,

swoop from broken lungs to block the transmission

to put an end to the nomad years



father you

are the

dead god



in me