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Spaghetti knots

Days to weather

The train gurgles

with people who

gurgle to other people

about their days, weather

and the way in which the world works,

which includes days and weather and me,

sitting and looking and seeing what

appears to be myself in someone else,

the fried spaghetti for hair,

the nose like a snail shell,

the crust of slime, dried and forgotten under my nostrils.

He gets off at the next stop,

letting in the day and the weather

that I hope are nice to him

because here

more people choke

and I hear the clouds drifting

to devour the day.


She still glows

after the light goes off,

which may be from the

numerous bananas and the

increased potassium that

radiates and fluoresces and produces

a half-life where neither of us

are living fully,

but only waiting

to fade away into shade.


The plate on the floor

knew the relationship was over

before we did.


Little can be said which hasn’t

been said before,

which makes what you say

all the more important

for it is small, incomplete,

a wobbly bit of what’s left.

About kacperniburski

I am searching for something in between the letters. Follow my wordpress or my IG (@_kenkan)


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