There are mountains
Just outside
of Delhi,
Made of
decomposed
Human souls and carcasses
Of dreams
Children
play knee-deep
In filth, even as
The vultures
watch
Cavernously
hoping for
Them to
Die
Among the broken toys
And discarded condoms
Stories
lie broken with
Rusted
promises and
Mangled
desires
Monuments of defanged
Glory lie buried under
Tons of ruined organic
Peristaltic pumps
bearing
Witness to the cancer
of our being
The stench of putrid
Human existence takes
Over the
neighborhood,
With the
amorous promiscuous
Prostitution of our senses
Piled sky high
Just outside of Delhi
--
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