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Meltdown He stepped past the police cordon, put on the mandatory surgical gloves, pulled out his notepad and pen and considered why, they had asked a poet to visit the scene of a crime. The force of the explosion had strewn about human parts. The cadaver's pride was on the commode. His vanity hung by the mirror. The libido sat exposed on the loveseat. Gobbets of guilt, were hidden in denial behind the door. But most telling, his stupidity was splattered on the wall behind the writing desk in particles of dura mater and blood. And there in front of the corpse was the culprit: a journal of love poems in the victim's handwriting.
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