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I twist the branches
Of my four foot pine
Lest they appear (A mother’s son is dead)
Obviously plastic.

I hang shatter-proof
Golds (a mother’s daughter is dead)
And fake
Snowflakes.

They shine
Identical like supermarket
Apples. (a father’s body no longer a slide)

I toss nuts
In brownie (battered girl tossed on Delhi’s streets)
Mix. I lick the whisk goo
Less.

I pour myself (he shot his mother too)
In Venetian crystal
Blood of another’s
God.

I wait for my host…
It’s cold and the wind
Whistles ‘long merrily
In these intestines
Of Hell. (they’re still waiting for an apocalypse) .

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