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A 1.618033 (s.unrise)

saintedmad 15 Nov 2014 Tag: l'ecriture 0 comments, leave your own..

morning. black, bird
on the bones of a beast, like hips or roses
and i have not yet beaten my body into that smell.
the drunken of sweet 
and everything

token of a wrist. 

small: spill your dark life there.
for the despot girl in between
where your tongue takes bereavement.. .  .and then you breathe.

my love hung herself

the nave of where 
you whore witness.

i have killed the pink sun for you.

Words: 76 / Updated: 29 Nov 2014 / © Copyright

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