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slam poetry

Stern-Staub und vaporous Licht
seien Sie nicht falsch
mein Sohn ist tot und ich bin gehender Vorhang
als ich ein Junge an der Hochschule war
so verloren
weich als das Bett in der Masse
ruhig mit reverance, im Awe
ich brenne keinen Duft
durch die ausgedehnten schmerzende Brust der Masse
der Himmel
ich sterbe

 



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