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Spaghetti knots

Genealogy of emptiness

The only advice

my father

ever gave me was

to never be

a father.


My father taught me

how to be a writer

by pounding away at something

unformed and useless

until it stops quivering

and bleeding

and sits still, waits,

listening to the quiet

of ideas.

He knew what he knew,

which is great,

because a writer writes only what they

know too.

I am happy he was


with his indents.


I told my father

that I wrote a poem

about him

and he said


while the television

moaned about some war

in the other room

and displayed some bodies

who would not learn

who won.

About kacperniburski

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


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