Yes, the prophets are bleeding,
affectionate in their poisoned truths.
Beetle-black ice cream churns
in your gut.
Kill me, and release me, O Muse,
Kill me and take my place.
Six days as the hummingbird flies,
six, in mockery of all that is holy.
The sacrament of inverse church is a secret place
between your thighs, the finest wine
money, avarice, root of evil, can buy.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem