***
The
dog-hearted Securitate bard
smelling
of pig’s fart flower
feels
a strong pain in his guts.
“Poesy,”
he says to himself, “lives
on
perpetual barbecues, I have
to
stick them into the brine,
to
rat on as many people as possible:
certainly,
I have the last word,
but
I utter it in such a whispering voice
that
nor can I hear it only the warrant
officer
hears it and he lays his hand
on
the throat of the traitor gypsyish
patience
supports me and I forgive no one
I
always listen to a song of lark
of
my innards.”
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