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After the rains,
it was a full moon
in summer night.

Fleeing from a subculture-
of violence, she was
nestling in the arms of clouds.

A lost killer swearing
with bruised arms,
raking up the old vendetta-

beheads the phallic
image. A brutalizing
score, when we were celebrating

the moon’s arrival. There was
no impropriety in spilling.
Sperm was the conjugal bliss.



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