20 lutego 2013
THE BRUTAL LIFE
The unspoken words
had the unborn quality.
That homliness sitting around the fire pits
writhed in predatory hopelessness.
Insensitive to flesh
we were shooting the ducks in midair.
Rapture for the dirt,
deceit does not need a consonant,
the intensity confronts the meaning.
The impermanence of joy
restores the crypt;
the body was still to be brought.
On the winds
a crumpled name floats
recalling the orgies.
Satish Verma
12 marca 2026
Weronika
12 marca 2026
sam53
11 marca 2026
Jaga
11 marca 2026
Jaga
11 marca 2026
wiesiek
11 marca 2026
Atanazy Pernat
11 marca 2026
Atanazy Pernat
11 marca 2026
ais
11 marca 2026
Kreton
10 marca 2026
wiesiek