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suicide poetry

le merriment sans fin et idiot des étoiles
nous avons aucune honte?
ŕ travers He va
quand je suis retourné au coucher du soleil
peut-ętre
sous la feuille sombre de laurier
vous avez marche vue par le village
il était un jeune oysterman grand
il n'y a aucune bande, toutefois observé et tendu
vous dites que vous m'aimez
plantons
descendu ŕ l'aube des collines windless

 



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