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erotic poetry

mais je ne puis pas vous lire maintenant
il raconte de bonnes vieilles périodes
une fois ce gazon mou
ville qui n'est pas une ville
dans des vos bras était le plaisir immobile
gloom
pourquoi sont les choses qui n'ont aucune mort
le roulement triste du tambour insonorisé a le battement

 



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