Don't lock me in wedlock, I want marriage, an encounter....
|
Don't eat those nice green dollars your wife gives you for breakfast.
|
and wife or husband who does not lock the door of the marriage...
|
'Living a life'— the beauty of deep lines dug in your cheeks.
|
Bite down on the bitter stem of your nectared...
|
In the gold mouth of a flower the black smell of spring earth....
|
I remember a dream two nights ago: the voice, 'the artist must create himself or be born again.'
|
Sixteen. Her breasts round, round, and dark-nippled who now these two months long is bones and tatters of flesh in earth.
|
The Minoan Snake Goddess is flanked by a Chardin still-life, somber and tranquil, and by Mohammedan angels...
|
Two girls discover the secret of life in a sudden line of poetry.
|
A letter with it discloses, in its words and between them,...
|
putting his hope in certain death, lowering his head again to the grass.
|
Darling Death shouted in his ear,...
|
Last night as if death had lit a pale light...
|
Black one, black one, there was a white candle in your heart.
|
Marvelous Truth, confront us at every turn, in every guise.
|
Meanwhile the angel, dressed for laughs as a plasterer,...
|
I would be met and meet you so, in a green airy space, not locked in.
|
... transform into our flesh our...
|
There's so much absolute hope now. She's full of miracles and she's a fighter.
|
there, where you live, live: start over, everyman, with the algae of your dreams.
|
It shouldn't be too much of a surprise that the Internet has evolved into a force strong enough to reflect the greatest hopes and fears of those who use it. After all, it was designed to withstand nuclear war, not just the puny huffs and puffs of politicians and religious fanatics.
|
(1) Know the pinetrees. Know the orange dryness of sickness and death in needle and cone. Know them too in green health, those among whom your...
|
there is more blood than sweet juice always more blood—mister death goes indoors exhausted
|
As the artist extends his world with...
|
I hear the tide turning. Last eager wave over- taken and pulled back by first wave of the ebb.
|
old Death, dusty gardener, are you alive yet, do I live on yet, in your gray considering eye?
|
A changing skyline. A slice of window filled in by a middle-distancing oblong topped by little moving figures.
|
... asks what it's too late to ask: "Where is my life? Where is my life? What have I done with my life?"
|
he bowed and not flinching from her black breath gave her his arm....
|