A civilian sleuth

The pure bullet, like ether,
shows its being in the gasping nature
of a duck heartless for its wound
where in water its death swooned.
It had a music in its throat,
it did, was strings, was air
curdled in its curdled blood
for all was blind and all was fair
for this one, whose feathers
swatted at themselves right before
the ants and maggots on it made war.
Each pincer took its worm,
took its day on the ceiling firm
of the ribs, themselves like iron,
was iron in the cavern where its yap
flew like the blood from a tissue tap.
It met someone for its handprint,
met someone like anyone who
met the young man who shot every face
in the lung-empty building condemned,
condemned each person like that place
now featherless upright but limp in the chase.


I apologise for the shoddiness of this piece. I was on quite a bit, started it one day on that bit, finished it the early morning off that bit.


~ by Jeremy on July 18, 2010.

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