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suicide poetry

noch dreizehn Jahre
gerade als meine Finger auf diesen Schlüsseln
wir brechen das Glas dessen sacred Wein
ich sah die archangels in meinem Apfel-Baum gestern Abend
als es
ich schleuderte meine Seele zur Luft wie einem Falkefliegen
unter den Bergen wandered ich
Ruhe als die zweiter Sommer
ich singe Ihnen
fette schwarze Dollars in einem Wein-Faßraum
wickeln Sie die Masse im bewölkten Wetter auf
Kerzen, die seitlich in den Tomatedosen stürzen

 



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