Dead End Fruits
Wood-En
Spear-Its
Wasted Women
Bodies Burn
Stink to Heaven
Heaven Falls
Salt in Our Wounds
God Sprinkles Down Some Lemon Juice
Talk to Women
And Talk to Corpsezz
Load the Dung
And Burn the Boxes…
Mutter this in Your Curaed Mother Tongue
The women were pretty…
But God smelled Dung—
A mystery like History…
A big rotten plum.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem