there is a god
to sort through the phony confessions
flowers of masochism
at the end of every accusation
which flagellates
from your soul to mine
i cloister inside you
pure as a pardoner
i eat sacred grammars
from the language of parrots
until my truth becomes a circle
in the yawns of demons
heads drop through puddles
Mother Mary!
i see you are teeming with hell
usurping the wind with rain
which eats you well
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