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.
18 june 2025
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18 june 2025
Jaga
16 june 2025
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16 june 2025
ajw
14 june 2025
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14 june 2025
ajw
12 june 2025
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12 june 2025
Jaga
11 june 2025
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10 june 2025
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