Hurry Up Please It’s Time (Anne Sexton Poems)
What is death, I ask. What is life, you ask. I give them both my buttocks, my two wheels rolling ...
What is death, I ask. What is life, you ask. I give them both my buttocks, my two wheels rolling ...
Many are the deceivers: The suburban matron, proper in the supermarket, list in hand so she won't suddenly fly, buying ...
No matter what life you leadthe virgin is a lovely number:cheeks as fragile as cigarette paper,arms and legs made of ...
Considera girl who keeps slipping off,arms limp as old carrots,into the hypnotist's trance,into a spirit worldspeaking with the gift of ...
1. DREAMSI was an ice baby.I turned to sky blue.My tears became two glass beads.My mouth stiffened into a dumb ...
Live or die, but don't poison everything… Well, death's been here for a long time — it has a hell ...
You speak to me of narcissism but I reply that it is a matter of my life - Artaud"At this ...
a prayerO Mary, fragile mother, hear me, hear me now although I do not know your words. The black rosary ...
I was thinking of a son. The womb is not a clock nor a bell tolling, but in the eleventh ...
for Sylvia Plath O Sylvia, Sylvia, with a dead box of stones and spoons, with two children, two meteors wandering ...
Oh sharp diamond, my mother! I could not count the cost of all your faces, your moods- that present that ...
For months my hand was sealed off in a tin box. Nothing was there but the subway railings. Perhaps it ...
Sleepmonger,deathmonger,with capsules in my palms each night,eight at a time from sweet pharmaceutical bottlesI make arrangements for a pint-sized journey.I'm ...
It is in the small things we see it.The child's first step,as awesome as an earthquake.The first time you rode ...
Somebody who should have been born is gone.Just as the earth puckered its mouth, each bud puffing out from its ...
Your daisies have come on the day of my divorce: the courtroom a cement box, a gas chamber for the ...
This singing is a kind of dying, a kind of birth, a votive candle. I have a dream-mother who sings ...
Leaping, leaping, leaping, down line by line, growling at the cadavers, filling the holy jugs with their piss, falling into ...
We are America. We are the coffin fillers. We are the grocers of death. We pack them in crates like ...
Sing me a thrush, bone. Sing me a nest of cup and pestle. Sing me a sweetbread fr an old ...
In his tenth July some instinct taught him to arm the waiting wave, a giant where its mouth hung open. ...
You, Doctor Martin, walk from breakfast to madness. Late August, I speed through the antiseptic tunnel where the moving dead ...
I'm afraid of needles. I'm tired of rubber sheets and tubes. I'm tired of faces that I don't know and ...
If you danced from midnight to six A.M. who would understand? The runaway boy who chucks it all to live ...
I would like to bury all the hating eyes under the sand somewhere off the North Atlantic and suffocate them ...
A woman who loves a woman is forever young. The mentor and the student feed off each other. Many a ...
I hired a carpenter to build my coffin and last night I lay in it, braced by a pillow, sniffing ...
Because there was no other place to flee to, I came back to the scene of the disordered senses, came ...
Jean, death comes close to us all, flapping its awful wings at us and the gluey wings crawl up our ...
It is snowing and death bugs me as stubborn as insomnia. The fierce bubbles of chalk, the little white lesions ...
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