joi, 24 ianuarie 2008


Whipping away
The remains of the dull day.
Sailing away
In a dark grim stern day

Between leather and tits
We’re all lousy, lousy misfits
Misfits and lace
Strike with the soft mace

The mace is in leather
Her skin, like a feather
A feather in blood
A smile like a knot
Flesh starting to rot.

Should she smile? Should she strike?
Why not?

A bientot.

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