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
5 listopada 2025
sam53
5 listopada 2025
sam53
5 listopada 2025
ajw
5 listopada 2025
wiesiek
5 listopada 2025
wiesiek
5 listopada 2025
Yaro
5 listopada 2025
Belamonte/Senograsta
4 listopada 2025
sam53
4 listopada 2025
Yaro
4 listopada 2025
Jaga