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Wednesday, November 16, 2016

Starved

Petals and bullets
whipped icing of Harp 
pretending to know the works by heart
club sandwich of him her and it
Love and longing shredded to bits
Some like their sandwiches open 
A few cut them through 
Others dip them in mayoexpect drab
In hunger they searched 
Found frantic tadka in bags 
Swords on plates which were
Found and never lost 
By night there was air in the whiffs
Of fried meat flung across the cliffs
Famished hawks jumping over the waste
Urge in wings lust in taste
He and she holding on to it's now
Dancing their way to the final bow
Three shots one hit 
Nothing crashed 
Two missed bullets
Rolling down the slope 
Landing in plates 
Of Duds with hope 
Yes love makes noise 
No it isn't immune to death 
By dawn we will be swollen and raw 
Cooking the imagine on mellow Simmer and stir with our paw
We will cuss, shudder while pounding the grain
Aborting the outstation 
Off the kissing train 

- Prajakta Sathe.

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