To slit the grinning wounds from childhoodґs 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
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