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