Midsummer Violence by Kushal Poddar

I am not a silent poet

In the dream about a blonde
and a cafe coiled
on a cobblestone corner
he dreams about an unstable gun,
serpentine, wobbling, hissing in his hand,
only a press on its trigger making it hard,
stiff, quiet, warm.
In this dream red bougainvilleas
bloom over the clouds, and blood
on the street.
People screams to wake him up.
The muzzle of blast turns
towards his temple.

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