Dead God in Me

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