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sex poem

ne tournez pas votre tête
pourquoi sont les choses qui n'ont aucune mort
quand j'étais a enfoncé à Londres
vécu à côté de la rive
un, comme part d'un arbre
je meurs
robuste, humble-abeille de somnoler
substance de la lune
vous pensez, mon garçon, quand je mets mes bras autour de vous
je suis fevered
dans leurs regimentals loqueteux
il y a des gains pour toutes nos pertes
si perdu
un dieu

 



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