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erotic poetry

frequentemente eu penso da cidade bonita
macia weeping
irmão, eu sou fogo
minha mãe ensinou-me que cada noite
glooms dos viv-carvalhos
behold mim, em meus chiffon, gauze e ouropel
velas que toppling lateralmente em umas latas do tomate
as máscaras da noite estavam caindo rapidamente

 



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