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2004-03-11 | |
For months I have measured your dimension.
You fit perfectly under my skin,
under my wig,
inside my right ventricle,
inside my generous belly house.
You don't fit in my bed:
too tall or
too long for
my seed shell.
First, I thought: letâ€™s cut off his head!
Non! Non, Dieuâ€¦
The head c'est le chef d'oeuvre!
The only self-portrait of Modigliani
with Jeanne HÃ©buterne reflection in a mirror,
in the sheet background.
Mais non! Câ€™est pas possibleâ€¦
I need his face to wrap my gifts for Halloween!
Cut away his toes with this sassafras spicy fileâ€¦?!
Why not? I answered to my question with a rhetoric question.
He could sleep without toes.
A bed is good for
A testicle for
A breast for
with the wing tip,
the soft and white nipple until it becomes
as firm as a ruby shiver.
Yeah...! The world is upside-down, monsieur.
Il tourne from the right to the left.
Or... From left to right?!
I donâ€™t remember.
I lost my memory.
Only my name I remember
and the fact that I don't fit
in my bed either.
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