Pity les pauvres Parisian men with gold teeth,
fight off your father's idea of a cuddle,
search for your reflection in a bucket of silky oil,
your heart punctured.
If you'd known me,
we could have been great friends.
But now I have to roast you and kill you.
Rise arborescent, my carnivore plant.
Berdache boy -
he throws like a girl but he fucks like a man,
and he won't tell me what you took from him.
Dance, waiting for the metro,
with looks like the crack of a whip,
to piano sonata number two in B flat minor.
Every year, make a little piece of Tuscany disappear,
coax deformations from jagged rock.
Take a deep sea dive down the toilet.
Be witched,
be bothered
and be wildered.
Sing golf songs.
Boys, don't you dream of princesses rescuing you?
Ah, la tristesse... |
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