"Les roses sanglantes"
Dali
Dali
@Rip ...
Ne restait plus qu’un pot de fromage blanc et un cendrier plein. Le lit bavait dans ses draps défaits. Le tabouret déglingué s’en foutait. Le frigo avait des crampes d’estomac, moi des rampes d’escalier qui n’en finissaient pas de tourner. Tino avait appelé. Rendez-vous rue legendre. Au cent.
The world was becoming smaller and it was increasingly difficult to meet.
sphere compressed oppresses.
Tino invited me to drink a foam that rolls in verse and rhyme raises. It was time, mine were being neglected since the harvest while the dregs of autumn bronze as always my vine grapes. We do not know much Tino and me. I did not know much about him except that he had the rare gift to spit words like a lout homing which always ended up exploding target and bystanders with. Apart from that I noticed he was tall and had shrapnel in the eye which shone like adamantium armor on lawns bleached. His word was his music nomad and Toltecs.
Street Legendre Batignoles between populist and sores. I neps breath an air of indifference. I was in this timeless venule Capital capitalized. My feet hit the asphalt andantino and my voice in my head silently humming a chantance Barbara:
"All loops are gone
But you, the more stubborn as stone,
You have not left the river
Neither Hill Flower of May ... "
... May , May, Paris, but it was autumn and rolled under my cry, I was happy spleen. In percent, Tino sits waiting at the bar.
- Hi Poet!
I climbed on the stool and biser Ibis. He eyed my breasts while sucking on his beer. Tino had the vision udder was his throat sugar, so it was a gift. Around us, the one hundred and dripping with red spots and talkative friends and I drank my foam listening to her struggles to pay me. He had a voice in the Rif so full of clay to hear him speak I was doing my mountain even though sometimes its snow covered cedars. Free gladiator fighting against his tawny powder on his words, he reinflating mine. We talked until closing time. And then, on the sidewalk of the rue Legendre, he spread his wings and a vertical helicopter had risen into the night. It had disheveled. Une fois rentrée, mon lit bavait toujours dans ses draps défaits mais ma tête était pleine de rimes et de canyons.
Ne restait plus qu’un pot de fromage blanc et un cendrier plein. Le lit bavait dans ses draps défaits. Le tabouret déglingué s’en foutait. Le frigo avait des crampes d’estomac, moi des rampes d’escalier qui n’en finissaient pas de tourner. Tino avait appelé. Rendez-vous rue legendre. Au cent.
The world was becoming smaller and it was increasingly difficult to meet.
sphere compressed oppresses.
Tino invited me to drink a foam that rolls in verse and rhyme raises. It was time, mine were being neglected since the harvest while the dregs of autumn bronze as always my vine grapes. We do not know much Tino and me. I did not know much about him except that he had the rare gift to spit words like a lout homing which always ended up exploding target and bystanders with. Apart from that I noticed he was tall and had shrapnel in the eye which shone like adamantium armor on lawns bleached. His word was his music nomad and Toltecs.
Street Legendre Batignoles between populist and sores. I neps breath an air of indifference. I was in this timeless venule Capital capitalized. My feet hit the asphalt andantino and my voice in my head silently humming a chantance Barbara:
"All loops are gone
But you, the more stubborn as stone,
You have not left the river
Neither Hill Flower of May ... "
... May , May, Paris, but it was autumn and rolled under my cry, I was happy spleen. In percent, Tino sits waiting at the bar.
- Hi Poet!
I climbed on the stool and biser Ibis. He eyed my breasts while sucking on his beer. Tino had the vision udder was his throat sugar, so it was a gift. Around us, the one hundred and dripping with red spots and talkative friends and I drank my foam listening to her struggles to pay me. He had a voice in the Rif so full of clay to hear him speak I was doing my mountain even though sometimes its snow covered cedars. Free gladiator fighting against his tawny powder on his words, he reinflating mine. We talked until closing time. And then, on the sidewalk of the rue Legendre, he spread his wings and a vertical helicopter had risen into the night. It had disheveled. Une fois rentrée, mon lit bavait toujours dans ses draps défaits mais ma tête était pleine de rimes et de canyons.
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