5 december 2018
Waist-High Sunk
When you release the
words, your curled fingers
burst into flame.
It was an ancient filth,
a bird fighting in the mud-
house of quote-unquote.
Someone navigated
over the bald heads to find
a landing place for a cuckoo.
Between real and fiction,
you cannot write a hymn
in praise of satan, called god.
I am done with the darkness
all around, and rip open
the wall to let in the jupiter.
16 march 2026
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16 march 2026
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15 march 2026
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15 march 2026
absynt
14 march 2026
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wiesiek
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11 march 2026
Jaga