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sad poetry

peut-être
ceux sur le supérieur indiquent qu'elles vous connaissent, la terre -- elles sont des menteurs
si le tueur rouge pensent il massacre
avec le rouge de sang de lèvres et le coeur de la pierre
le merriment sans fin et idiot des étoiles
le petit pitoyable, porté, visages de rire
vieux vin à boire
se déclenchant vers le haut, tombant vers le bas
dernier minuit
comme un homme nu je vont
s'il
maintenant tandis que mes lèvres vivent
elle pourrait l'avoir su en ressort premier
le long d'une rive

 



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