Take me tothe comics section
what of itthat i stand watch for the third dayover an unborn poem
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and the snow will crunch, and the dew will push through the door, and there will be nothing,only three hearts, palms grown together
It’s liberating, like removing diapers from a child –I crawl through my dream naked and without shame.
Summer ends in my wombwhile autumn begins to ripen.I’ll have a little wolfevery night now.
am I free? – I ask myselfcould I be free? – I have my doubtsam I under arrest? – not yet
let life live itself it’s not stupid after allit knows what it’s doing
you are the moneysuckerthe cognac-swiller, the limousine-riderthe shoe-polisher - I mean the bootlicker
better to be a bad poetand a good father, my sonbetter to be a rough poetand a gentle father, my daughter
only by doing dull things andhanging out with shitty peoplecan i believe that the world is beautiful
If Homer’s Achaeans were to fill the autumn forest,even they would fail to defeat the falling leaves
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