Jules Laforgue Poems

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October's Little Miseries

Every October I start to get upset.
The factories' hundred throats blow smoke to the sky.
The pullets are getting fat

The Dirge of the Poet's Fetus

BLASÉ do I say! Have done!
Forward, and tear these roots that glue like night,
Through mamma, love of albumen, to the light,

For the Book of Love

I MAY be dead tomorrow, uncaressed.
My lips have never touched a woman's, none
Has given me in a look her soul, not one

The Song of a Little Boy With a Hypertrophied Heart

MY mammy, says the Doctor,
Died because something shocked her,
My poor mamma.

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