Author

Jaia Papitz

125 works

Jaia Papitz is the founder and, sometimes editor of iExile. He writes poetry and essays, with occasional satire and fiction, and has published over 120 pieces on the site since 2007. He is the author of Bulă, or How We Invented Quantum (2026) and Voidward (2025), both from iExile Press. His photography work may be seen at photoExile.

Essays Fiction Poetry

Poetry

Leftover love

I hid you in my thought
Deep, in dark ravines
Behind mountains of chores

Essays

Let there be science!

After eight years of a delusional presidency – where talking snakes, senator horses and born-again were more important than knowledge itself – we finally attempt to reenter onto the path...

Poetry

Letting go… there

Let's make love where the sky ends
Come with me there, today
I'll pick you up at the end of the tunnel

Poetry

Look

look there where they could not see
where we are blind
the bait is not taken

Essays

Mecca vaccine

The word Mecca from the title could be replaced by any of the following: Hollywood, Holy-Land etc. since they represent the same essence but with a different form. Perhaps Dream...

Poetry

Metaphorless

I’d like to fuck mountains in the ass
Forcing their lava subside in the liver
Cirrhotic and moonshinless

Poetry

Milky men

Fact
Good & bad
True &false

Poetry

Moral undance

Naked, by the moonless breath
With visible hope, unfogging glossy moans
Destatuing the unrisen

Poetry

Mortaling

Sex, the nirvana of plebe
Robeless, uninitiated
Moaning, careless of nightingale

Poetry

Mother nature

mother nature, the whore
STD-ing any cloud
The shadow

Essays

Mourning, into the absurd

Like the powerless gazelle watching its calf being eviscerated ravenously by an insensitive feline, we mourn absurdly the perennial tragedy. Why? What monster could have committed this atrocity? The mirror’s...

Poetry

mundane guillotine

What if die tonight
Would your laughter get fuller?
No

Poetry

napkin for the soul – stutz!

The beauty'n every leaf
I see
Its spawn in the undug below

Poetry

Ode to Stupid

You,
you slaughtered methaphors in ditches
Turned revolving souls into stomping flats

Poetry

Of all,

Unhatched, our past
Laid rotten in the nest
Even the runt flew close to the embrace

Poetry

Of Else

empty streets
of humans, of fog
lovers forgot how to love, to moan

Poetry

Of late

I’m late
the century just passed by carrying the breathable
ticketless, on the red painted curb

Poetry

Of said

Why should one wait, the hope or dream
the patience has been given as obedience, not virtue
one will receive what one despises, at their will

Poetry

of…

I wouldn't start the email with a barren dear or I hope this finds you well...
I want to be polite like a gentle summer rain after the drought
and lascivious like a baby born naturally, I want.

Poetry

Omeleted Savior

Oh, how much I loved myself
Like an immortal, aware
Of my infinity, senseless

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