The Bullet
New, anew, knew, anew and today we’ll focus on the bullet.
As ever, it tears through the city, mangled bodies thrown
asunder.
As ever, it burrows down into the pipes and hides, gorged
for a time, waiting for its next prey.
Where will he strike? This beast, coat glistening in the dim
dripping light of the swing faux moon.
Move.
His belly distends and we all flow out like some kind of
terrible afterbirth, scrambling to find our place amongst the concrete and the
jungle of grey grey grey.
Off it cracks, violence its name.
Off it moans, violence it speaks.
Off it toils, violence boils... but not here, not today, in
this fair city.
Another shadow drops, mangled; another one gave in and so
today none of us focus on the bullet.
But we do make hasty jokes and they grow into rocks, cover
for us to hide behind while the bullets whistle and fly, wearing us down,
sunken eyes hiding in the hidden war zone of Tokyo.
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