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suicide poetry

fleurs des bébés
hauts murs et énorme
il y a une heure du repos paisible
vous entendez la pluie?
treize ans toujours
je dédaigne mes amis davantage que vous
et pain de breaketh pas plus
aimez-moi enfin, ou si vous pas
je suis le vent qui hésite
dans des vos bras était le plaisir immobile
doux et fort
bougies se renversant en longueur dans des bidons de tomate

 



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