To slit the grinning wounds

from childhood's seven moons

the palette stained with the ejaculated passions

(of forbidden, hedonistic colors...)



Strike from omnipotence; all-seer, all-deemer

and haunt my severed country with your

dripping, secret games



You pick 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