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Autumn. Bombs fall. No one has any fun.

Autumn. Your sister’s husband leaves for Prague


and she moves in, sharing our affection

and bed. A city under mountain fog


and war-time curfew. “You see how she is,”

you say, pulling her panties to her knees,


guiding me in. “It can’t be helped.” Her fizz-

slush-gush sound nothing like far-flung volleys


of gunfire. Autumn in Stepanakert.

Rockets pockmark. Bombs fall. Drawing closer.


Drawing near. “Yes ts’av yem sirum.” She boasts

of a constant pounding. “Make sister squirt,”


you say. “This way.” We three ghosts. “Make sister

cum.” It can’t be helped. We three horny ghosts.



Stepanakert is the capital and the largest city of the Republic of Artsakh. As of yesterday (10/29/20) long-range Azerbaijani missiles fell on residential sections of the city, striking a maternity hospital and children’s center. In Armenian, «Ես ցավ եմ սիրում» (Yes ts’av yem sirum) translates into, “I love pain.”