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 |
