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.