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She is shy, she is starkers
amongst bunch of blusher flies
suckin’ red juice in a boat shaped
greenish white rotten melon caps
lay cross near garbage cans
she hum like a throat slit honey bee
the vibrations silent as bus horn
in peak Chennai traffic;

She milk thy sour juice
romancing flesh ‘mandingo’ flies
her compound eyes aimed
them, red fruit arranged precipitously
on a punctured blue tricycle

The old puff dog cracked chicken claw
with his torn jaw
And tricycle man wore a black
varicose Vein cover  — spiralled legs
He chase thy swarm of flies on a war
for sliced red melons
with a cloth in tatter, don’t think it matter
powdered red chillies in salt water!

She swirl towards wine red melons
Smilin’on tricycle, harder;
His wings took to air like a bomber
She pierce musca abdomens
akin kerosene queue Indians
her thorax jolted by cotton cloth strike
often she twist through cloth holes

Alas she manage
to suck mesocarp juice,
it was spicy; powdered chilly
mixed with hot melon water;
she loved the rind juice instead!
She fly back with open antennas
Housefly on Watermelon…