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.
Copyright © Nathaniel Köhp | Year Posted 2009
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment