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Spaghetti knots

deed day

the war was won

though i was still on the steps

twenty years later

barely beyond the bottom floor

where

a man was shot in the head

by the earlier applause of progress

he could not hear

due to a bubbling mind that roared explosions

at such a fury

that it was shared with the birth of the stars

and those other firing brains

shining their warm generous light

into darkness

through the invention of the finest gun

to date

one with quick release and easy safety

that would help protect the children

from unnecessary harm

 

a man already dead before the before

and the final touch of an artist’s splatter

that never learned how to paint

that ten years ago

would’ve been first fingering through a bra

like a water spider

spread full body

trying to avoid falling into her waters

that brought life

now laughter of a brook

in a way that a million works of art never managed

to capture

this included

tickling the thing to death

until she takes it off

bearing what the universe was made for

even if he doesn’t last long

only twenty years

barely enough to be called a man

but a man no less

but no more either

 

a man who withstood too much

its been good doing business with you

and not enough entrancement

of being terrified of moving forward

of not knowing what is best

for it has not been told before by

parents who knew better

because there would always be jobs

though there weren’t

and there’d always be woman

though there wouldn’t be

and there won’t always be there there son

though there would

in light mornings blessed by unbiased skies

with no expectation of tomorrow

where there is coffee and books and music

though there is not enough of these things

either

 

a man who watched the birth of a cousin

and wished he would want to participate in this becoming

a man who killed another man

in battle where there was smoke and gas and fire

like in the beginning of all this

and at the end too

a man who watched nothing for

a few months

and even this made him wince

 

a man who said he was never going to be mediocre

a man who was

a man who said he was going to fall in love

a man who wasn’t

a man who would watch the stars drunk on night

undressing themselves as if they were

only his

a man who staring up at skirt of clouds

realizing

it was always

only him

 

and he was no marksman

in that small probationary moment

of wanting to be in jail

to have done something

to have something

to have

so the war was won

without a much of

a shot

in the end

 

he didn’t even hear it

with a brain still being stuck

on the echoes of other times

that no longer tick

 

though the bugs would

suck the blood first

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About kacperniburski

I am searching for something in between the letters.

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