Poets and writers drink more intensely. Smoke more intensely. Worship God more intensely. Poets and writers fuck more intensely. Poets and writers give more willingly-- spilling the alphabetical marrow of their souls out into the albino sonogram of hope that is the page, hoping some stranger whom he or she has never before met turns to his crafted syllables in time of dire need and somehow finds solace, finds laughter finds a friend.
Monday, February 11, 2013
50 years ago t'day poet Sylvia Plath commited suicide...
after all that— would I knot my tie in the same manner as your Ted?
you home, spread your legs, enter the
aerial, gold on my fingerprints blood bitten bottom lip
hesitate to harangue
the place where all your poems come,
your mattress, you on top (so much shit they gave us once)
lid, lavender ships, my spring break, my circled ink calendar space
matter, my little pinkie curled around your auburn tress, sloughed
blouse, heaped in androgynous dune, corduroy tangled afternoon
I tell you shit—
hafta turn the oven on 400 to stick your head in it—
feel warm inside’- fairy child since he lied, kiss your July forehead
your nails an amethyst blue, dew your tears and wet your hips,