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    To slit the grinning wounds
    from childhood´s 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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