When it is your turn on the table, hear that other screaming again, realize it is you falling into the pit where words go to die. Is it here? It is everywhere. But is it here? It is nowhere.
We follow trails of dying words to the game room, poets laughing, smoking tar opium, passing the pipe, passing a gun, pulling the trigger-boom. That’s where the words go to be reconsidered, spit out anew, wisdom earned and turned. Knowledge is a hole in the head.
© 2016 artwork, music & words
conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2016 ©