Sylvia Plath

The tearaway, youthful runaway Running for a lifetime, blocked out Brick wall, but, those same Old demons stuck to your back Demon wings like barnacles To the hull of your iron heart Beating under apron strings Ever since "Daddy" left, Electra You have been a tulip, caught In a Slavic winter. Redraw The map. Nazi Prussian blues To London, America. The United States of absolute; the growing Ground for your misanthropy. Awfully Unfortunate; yet ever giving We feast upon your tortured Soul. Black gold ink The slurry you bleed upon us Rich in image with a sick Sense of humour; like laughing In a morgue or spitting jokes Upon a fresh grave. Ach du! The same old jar, pickled flesh. Gott! A foetus. What a tortured mind can Breathe to life in the fold of a Notepad; the centrefold...Paula Brown The world in two, waiting for a saviour Superman or Nazi gas. The house drowned In complete, ravenous silence as you fell asleep.