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suicide poetry

es gibt keine Menge, gleichwohl aufgepaßt und geneigt
wir legen
als ich ein Junge an der Hochschule war
entlang den Bänken
einige der Hurts, die Sie kuriert haben
ich stand das geöffnete Flügelfenster bereit
ein Leben auf der Ozeanwelle
wie er wer Geist in der Flamme des Mittages
weich weinend

 



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