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The accretion of a perfect squall when claws were out- scavenging novelties. A lewd paranoia slains a farewell in a trench. The chamber has vomited a mound of gold blinding a shell. The combs did not straighten the puff. The old man was very lonely. I would stop hunting the stings of a bare-chested moon. I recuse myself from judging the paperboat which wanted to cross the ocean. Satish Verma

Copyright © | Year Posted 2013

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