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gothic poetry

un poèt, ayant pris le frein outre de sa langue
le ciel
mon amour vrai de son oreiller a monté
bougies se renversant en longueur dans des bidons de tomate
elle était une beauté en jours
nous n'étions pas beaucoup
simplement parlant
roses et or
il est venu me prendre par la main

 



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