Shrapnel Songs

Cold hands on very warm skin and I pluck my eyes out and offer them to you because I am lost for a moment and I think my hands have been tied. But your warm hands on my cold skin strip the flesh from bone, ripped and torn, never born. Make the last cut because my hands are tied I think. I cannot move them but I can feel your flesh move across them and I think your liquids are flowed. Or it is the blood from my eyes. I can’t tell. Would you tell me? But I think you are not really you and just a phantasm of sorts. The war is going very well thank you. I feel the rifle at my side and the small pieces of shrapnel fly past me gently tugging at the cloth of my combat jacket. I hope one hits me in the forehead and I poke my head above the trench. They warn me but I just laugh because someone is blowing a whistle and they have a dry mouth and it just farts commands. It’s good. A piece of metal slices through my stomach and blows some of my intestines across my shoulder. It’s a meat cloak, I dance because the pain is nothing but my blood pressure has gone and the oxygen to my brain is slowed. I am a retard. A fool without air. Blood is everywhere. You laugh again and so do I as you pull me towards the edge and throw me onto the corpses that litter the bottom of the shell hole.

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