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Montreal Lament This old aorta no longer does Baudelaire my dear nor fly along the cobbled streets past the dank wharfs where old companions still cackle my name by the wet stone walls the tugboats honk out in the night fog over the St. Laurent these old rags and bones have lost grip on Eluard and midnight ravings this old habitant did not reach fame this time round but left it behind my dear all that remains now is to maybe open up a bookstore, eh? |
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Contortions
Sabine Magazine
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