#Americans #Suicide #Women #XXCentury
Always in the middle of a kiss Came the profane stimulus to cough… Always from teh pulpit during serv… Leaned the devil prompting you to… Behind mock—ceremony of your grief
Fired in sanguine clay, the model… Fit nowhere: thumbed out as a clas… By a casual friend, it stood Obtrusive in the long bookshelf, s… Thick volumes of prose—
What a thrill —— My thumb instead of an onion. The top quite gone Except for a sort of a hinge Of skin,
Haunched like a faun, he hooed From grove of moon—glint and fen—f… Until all owls in the twigged fore… Flapped black to look and brood On the call this man made.
O half moon— Half-brain, luminosity— Negro, masked like a white, Your dark Amputations crawl and appall—
To his house the bodiless Come to barter endlessly Vision, wisdom, for bodies Palpable as his, and weighty. Hands moving move priestlier
This is a dark house, very big. I made it myself, Cell by cell from a quiet corner, Chewing at the grey paper, Oozing the glue drops,
On storm—struck deck, wind sirens… With each tilt, shock and shudder,… Cleaves forward into fury; dark as… Waves wallop, assaulting the stubb… Flayed by spray, we take the chall…
In sunless air, under pines Green to the point of blackness, s… Founding father set these lobed, w… To loom in the leaf-filtered gloom Black as the charred knuckle-bones
Nobody in the lane, and nothing, n… Blackberries on either side, thoug… A blackberry alley, going down in… Somewhere at the end of it, heavin… Big as the ball of my thumb, and d…
I can taste the tin of the sky ——t… Winter dawn is the color of metal, The trees stiffen into place like… All night I have dreamed of destr… An assembly—line of cut throats, a…
the slime of all my yesterdays rots in the hollow of my skull and if my stomach would contract because of some explicable phenome… such as pregnancy or constipation
The text of this poem could not be…
At this wharf there are no grand l… Red and orange barges list and bli… Shackled to the dock, outmoded, ga… And apparently indestructible. The sea pulses under a skin of oil…
Soliloquy Of The Solipsist I? I walk alone; The midnight street Spins itself from under my feet;