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mom poem

ich brenne keinen Duft
fette schwarze Dollars in einem Wein-FaĂźraum
noch dreizehn Jahre
sie limps mit dem Anhalten des schmerzlichen Schrittes
der Regen sein rĂĽber und die leuchtende Luft
der Geruch von stieg so falsch, die zutreffenden Dornen so
lassen Sie uns Pity die, denen besser seien Sie weg von, als wir sind
was es die gesagten Maschinen war
haben wir keine Schande?

 



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