( me / via )

On translating Lorca into Shaetlan.

terse apricity
tilts at ganching branches
monster frolics moil
mincemeat of the tent-serfs
brisk drinking of blood
abrupt carol faring

Justice Tonight / kick it over.

"WINTER SOLSTICE (Anagrammed Lines)

Winter Solstice:
Written close is
woe. Strict lines
wrestle in stoic
selections, writ
low in its secret."

--@anthonyetherin.bsky.social

In the centre of the town of Wigan.