Poezja

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.