Intro..
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Poems..



       Actually: Madam Editor: I've reached that stage: that:
I mind: when people like what I do.  Because: let's face it -
people do like terrible shit: even: a person: from the heart:
you consider a poet: right before your eyes:       he praises
something: what you consider to be complete nothing: and shit
- or vice versa - despises pure gold ..
       When someone praises me (fortunately this happens very
rarely) :immediately it starts to bother me:   I start to get
nervous - what is it? Why that?    Am I doing anything wrong?
Did I get out of the way? :I ask myself:    I look at this my
work suspiciously: whether:       a dolphin is jumping over a
rainbow there: or:  is there an existential concept somewhere
inside? Fuck!  :what if: by some fucking coincidence: I found
the way to sell myself: Shit! It is here!        - I am happy
performer on stage! - in a circle of shiny metal penises



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