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Apr 2017
Performing to a script
you divide me like a fish.
From dirt a face rises.

One flew over the sea
to count the red islands
where the rocks hanged the dry skulls.

Why did you **** the panthers
by feeding them the toxic menu?
Sugar was never my cup.

It was not the question
of bread and butter:
we were talking of clean air.

The ashes will rule now.
Written by
Satsih Verma
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