Blind mouths tend towards the stars. 
The pallid slough of West has agonized since Dawn, 
pouring marks of devastation, strewing the waste of sublimation. 
Greyish reflection of a dead Noumenon, the Hebdomad all around, 
here and there, before and after, erects in all directions. 
sprawling and ubiquitous scaffold yet visible by black torches.
Crawling counterfeits, libations of dirt, shadows of dog shadows.
Holes with teeth that seize and shake fallow flesh. 
Son of frigid intercourse, weaving are they the matter of void, 
in their infected meat, piling up the bones of immortality. 

Born under an impotent sun's [bad word]  
sons of disgraceful penetration repeat ceaselessly the acts of a trial which led to exile. 
The extrication of a vine shoots from matter, nothing more than to excrete through rags of time.