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suicide poetry

je me suis tenu prêt le tissu pour rideaux ouvert
souvent je pense à la belle ville
indéfiniment
j'ai vu les archangels dans mon pomme-arbre la nuit passée
bruits qui tâchent de déchirer
ce compagnon étrange est venu sur brouiller des pieds
sommeil, frère gris de la mort
et pain de breaketh pas plus
jusqu'à sa fenêtre de chambre
les poèts le disent
le petit pitoyable, porté, visages de rire
son visage est juste et lisse et bon

 



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