Two awfully young men were hiding behind some broken and tortured walls,
in the corner, in between the smoked bricks.
Nobody was chasing them, nobody was there for them…nobody was there for madness…
No blue birdy, no men with blasted ears.
They hid there for three days and four nights with stomach inside their palms and fire in their lungs.
And then they found a .38 caliber revolver under a black and white checkered torned table cloth,
they knew they have found the God,
although they never asked for it.
But the God was carrying only one bullet inside…
So the dilemma, the competition of a poetic Justice.
They did, what any beautiful person with no God with them, would do,
they tried to shoot a fearless fucked up chicken roaming around,
and they missed terribly.
They messed up the God…
Again they waited for the moon to be licked and for the oceans to bring the steel ships.
I guess I would have tried to shoot the sun and failed miserably and pretended to be a oblivious poet…if I was them.
You see I have never written a single word with the smell of a brown nuke in my courtyard.