Satur9Eigenlijk is het poëtisch, toch?
Pealing, it tries to fill the cold night airAnd off the white smoke swimsShe stretches a hand toward the toothy sleeperto matter, for the flushed boys are muscularPartly stone, partly the absence of stone,They tear apart the mist, it is as though,to restaurants for Early Bird Specials.Pallid waste where no radiant fathomers,IX. After the Great Northern ExpeditionWinds blow sharp, what then?That images of roads, whether composedThe mortal architect had brought to life,Unreadable from behind—they are well downThe surge of swirling wind definesRight, and appears from here to be overcomethe old men burnish stories of Yaz and the Babefor a few weeks, statistics won’t seemthe foul pole relaxes. She’s raged all afternoonShe stretches a hand toward the toothy sleeper
Ik vind dit soort spammails, zonder link in de tekst, echt wel een beetje bizar. Dan begin ik te lezen, en kan niet meer stoppen. Het bijgevoegde gifje laat ik maar voor wat het is.
