My heart in a few words. My fingers traced the bridge. Of your nose, gliding. For twenty five a kilo. Of my fare to school. A peddler had lured me. And its bright yellow flesh. Before the peddler could leave.

Sorry that was just my asshowl. They threw forks and plates and soup and spit. Until they grew tired they sat they crouched they slept. She mumbled she could not understand him. She was a woman he was a man. She was she he was he. Pulled his pubic hair out.

For the nature of this thing we call a poem. Modes; or poems may use combin.

The aroma from my coffee. Greeted me like the song. That flowed out from your lips. Perhaps, it was years ago. When you sang them to me,. As you craved to empty your. It used to tell of your yearnings. To see the neon lights. On towering buildings and heights. Of snows cupped on bare hands. My skin with the coldness of America. Which is different from ours.

BROTHERHOOD is the son of RAPE.

In fact, it is not merely a story of how a couple spent their honeymoon but it embodies social relevance that makes it more engrossing. LAST NIGHT SATAN WAS SCREAMING.