I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am.
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His hair long and plausive. Bastard Masturbating a glitter, He wants to be loved.
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Dying Is an art, like everything else....
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I talk to God, but the sky is empty.
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Is there no way out of the mind?
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What did my hands do before they held you?
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Each dead child coiled, a white serpent, One at each little Pitcher of milk, now empty.
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I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my eyes and all is born again.
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So daddy, I'm finally through. The black telephone's off at the root, The voices just can't worm through. If I've killed one man, I've killed two -- The vampire who said he was you And drank my blood for a year, Seven years, if you want to know. Daddy, you can lie back now. There's a stake in your fat black heart And the villagers never liked you. They are dancing and stamping on you. They always knew it was you. Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.
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Everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it and the imagination to improvise.
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I Am the arrow,...
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Black and stiff, but not a bad fit. Will you marry it?
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God's lioness, How one we grow, Pivot of heels and knees!—
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I fixed my eyes on the larget cloud, as if, when it passed out of my sight, I might have the good luck to pass with it.
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To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is a bad dream.
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I would say it was the coffin of a midget Or a square baby Were there not such a din in it.
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I wanted change and excitement and to shoot off in all directions myself, like the colored arrows from a Fourth of July rocket.
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First, are you our sort of a person? Do you wear...
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Widow. The word consumes itself.
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I have simply ordered a box of maniacs. They can be sent back. They can die, I need feed them nothing, I am the owner.
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The blood jet is poetry and there is no stopping it.
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Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing.
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It works, there is nothing wrong with it. You have a hole, it's a poultice....
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There must be quite a few things a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them.
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He tells me how sweet The babies look in their hospital Icebox,
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Naked as paper to start But in twenty-five years she'll be silver, In fifty, gold.
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like the cat I have nine times to die. This is Number Three. What a trash To annihilate each decade.
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I was ten when they buried you. At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you.
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I am no source of honey So why should they turn on me?...
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There's a stake in your fat black heart And the villagers never liked you....
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