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‘In life, love gnawed my skin To this white bone; What love did then, love does now: Gnaws me through.’
‘There sits no higher court Than man’s red heart.’
Rather than croak out What’s to come, My darling ravens are flown.
‘Something’s addled in a woman who accommodates That many cats.’
Empty, I echo to the least footfall, Museum without statues, grand with pillars, porticoes, rotundas.
The moon lays a hand on my forehead, Blank-faced and mum as a nurse.
Without me, she wouldn’t exist, so of course she was grateful. I gave her a soul, I bloomed out of her as a rose
I Am Vertical But I would rather be horizontal.
If the moon smiled, she would resemble you. You leave the same impression Of something beautiful, but annihilating.
I do not want a plain box, I want a sarcophagus
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
They thought death was worth it, but I Have a self to recover, a queen. Is she dead, is she sleeping ? Where has she been, With her lion-red body, her wings of glass ?
And I a smiling woman. I am only thirty. And like the cat I have nine times to die.
Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real.
Beware Beware. Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.
She would rather be dead than fat, Dead and perfect, like Nefertit,
Myself the rose you achieve — This body, This ivory Ungodly as a child’s shriek. Spiderlike, I spin mirrors, Loyal to my image,
People or stars Regard me sadly, I disappoint them.
Perfection is terrible, it cannot have children.
The woman is perfected. Her dead Body wears the smile of accomplishment, The illusion of a Greek necessity Flows in the scrolls of her toga, Her bare Feet seem to be saying: We have come so far, it is over.
the slime of all my yesterdays rots in the hollow of my skull
Clocks cry: stillness is a lie, my dear; The wheels revolve, the universe keeps running.
My love for you is more athletic than a verb, agile as a star the tents of sun absorb.
