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11 Make fecund; That which haunt me still From nightmares of long ago HIGH HEAVEN High heaven, to which reeks A nation’s faeces; the churned undigested pilferages Shat out via anuses of greed High heaven, to which smack These contaminants of graft, farted From the champagneous bulges Of pressurised-can stomachs Forgive us the blasphemy High heaven, where go these whiffs Of festering terribleness, wafted From the street corners of thrash can-cities And to which rise These Babelian heights Of disposed assorted dross; The Himalayan dustbins of downtowns Forgive us the desecration 12 ...

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