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I run the butcher’s knife
under sacred warm waters
as fatty pork splutters
on debris of matchsticks,
and the old man falters down
candlelit stairwell.

Little bird, you died
on my terrace before landfall.
I fed you to the storm, menaced
night through urban sprawl
she spat you out –
an ugly sight. Stuck
on concrete, one wing flapping
hi-fiving rebirth into the same
shit-hole. My microwave
is beeping. Dinner.

Laundry foaming rabid,
PTAC’s set to hell, dishes
licking bubbles
in what they say is sewage –
who needs god when Man created
electricity and flashlights
that kept the kids ecstatic
while the corner of her lips
danced in pine-scented candles
as mortals hid their eyes
and melted?

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