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.
4 august 2025
wiesiek
4 august 2025
absynt
3 august 2025
wiesiek
3 august 2025
absynt
2 august 2025
Jaga
31 july 2025
absynt
31 july 2025
absynt
30 july 2025
absynt
28 july 2025
Jaga
28 july 2025
absynt