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To slit the grinning wounds from childhood's seven moons
The palette stained with the ejaculated passions
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
Father, you are the dead god in me
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