18 september 2016
Uneven Path
It was a summer night.
A windswept moonbeam
plummeted. Sexualizing
an indigo flesh. A butcher
was seducing
a spider, in company of
a holy book. Sunbathing in
mass grave of skulls. The eyes
peeking out of the caps.
You want to pluck the blue
berries from
volcano mounts. The key player
will burn your script. Body
of milk died on snow. The
moth was coming out of cocoon.
13 august 2025
wiesiek
13 august 2025
absynt
13 august 2025
absynt
13 august 2025
absynt
13 august 2025
absynt
13 august 2025
absynt
12 august 2025
wiesiek
11 august 2025
Jaga
11 august 2025
absynt
11 august 2025
absynt