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Red drips from my chin where I have been eating.
Not all the blood, nowhere all, is wiped off my mouth.


Clots of red mess my hair
And the tiger, the buffalo, know how.


I was a killer.
Yes, I am a killer.


I come from killing.
I go to more.
I drive red joy ahead of me from killing.
Red gluts and red hungers run in the smears and juices of my inside bones:
The child cries for a stick mother and I cry for war.