Whatever happened to Arun?

Arun, he knew, means the sun.

So Arun decided to be a poet.
And then on he spoke, only to conceal,
Like today’s crossword
With yesterday’s clues.

Arun, he said, means the bright.

So Arun decided to grow his beard,
Like bronze clouds with dark wisps.
He started to smoke and read
Fat books, cover to cover!

Arun, he thought, means nothing.

So Arun, the Sun, glows bright
Between the shifts of a call-center
Eagerly licks veiled cunts
Of earthen beauties, dimly lit.


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