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 !@&( 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