Paradise for Terrorists.

A room spins,

part of a cataclysm

in this eternal yarn,

it’s line swimming like sea waves

and distant as a dream.

White sheets,

crisp and cold

from the constant change

and upheaval

are repeatedly used and

repeatedly aired

to show off the squashed blackberries

that were forced to escape a place of innocence.

He smiles,

eyes hooded.

This red blooded male

smokes a cigar

and pats the weeping girls rump

as she limps out of the room.

The yarn slides down her thigh

and glides connecting

to the line of others.

The sheets are changed

by smiling servants

who place the next table cloth down

to serve his ravenous hunger.

“Praise Allah.”

he says, smiling fondly.

“Blowing that train up was totally worth it.”

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