Blood Fruits

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Beyond the sex 
he was sleepwalking in shame 
hiding his faith ingloriously. 

A poacher in harem 
of politics, where you stack the hidden 
virility for killing the money. 

A single mate must die 
making love on screen in the vicinity 
of god’s house. 

The monstrous lie will 
press the knife to the lips 
for shedding the blood of a monk in a brothel. 

If we must forget 
the accidental shot, 
the spring will never come to olive grove.

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