

Saint-Sébastien (ou les plaies de flèches)
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Saint-Sébastien (ou les plaies de flèches)
L’ivresse me tient
Guettant mon envolée de cigarettes
L’alcool menace quand mon tabac tombe en déclin
L’allégresse s’éteint sous mes brumeuses tempêtes
Les deux hydres se confondent sous leurs saouls desseins.
Tombant de Charybde en Scylla
Je ne suis que ce minuscule vacillant, simple protomartyr poète


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