#Americans #Suicide #Women #XXCentury
I am in a crate, the crate that wa… full of white shirts and salad gre… the icebox knocking at our delecta… and I wore movies in my eyes, and you wore eggs in your tunnel,
We are America. We are the coffin fillers. We are the grocers of death. We pack them in crates like caulif… The bomb opens like a shoebox.
Concerning your letter in which yo… me to call a priest and in which y… me to wear The Cross that you enc… your own cross, your dog—bitten cross,
Over stone walls and barns, miles from the black—eyed Susans, over circus tents and moon rockets you are going, going. You who have inhabited me
Under my bowels, yellow with smoke… it waits. Under my eyes, those milk bunnies, it waits. It is waiting.
Leaping, leaping, leaping, down line by line, growling at the cadavers, filling the holy jugs with their p… falling into windows and mauling t…
Oh sharp diamond, my mother! I could not count the cost of all your faces, your moods— that present that I lost. Sweet girl, my deathbed,
This is the key to it. This is the key to everything. Preciously. I am worse than the gamekeeper’s c… picking for dust and bread.
You are the roast beef I have pur… and I stuff you with my very own o… You are a boat I have rented by t… and I steer you with my rage until… You are a glass that I have paid…
The town does not exist except where one black—haired tree… up like a drowned woman into the h… The town is silent. The night boi… Oh starry night! This is how
There will be mud on the carpet to… and blood in the gravy as well. The wifebeater is out, the childbeater is out eating soil and drinking bullets f…
Slim inquirer, while the old fathe… you are reworking their soil, you… a grocery store there down under t… and it is well stocked with broken… old cigars, old door knobs and ear…
Someone lives in a cave eating his toes, I know that much. Someone little lives under a bush pressing an empty Coca—Cola can a…
No matter what life you lead the virgin is a lovely number: cheeks as fragile as cigarette pap… arms and legs made of Limoges, lips like Vin Du Rhône,
I was thinking of a son. The womb is not a clock nor a bell tolling, but in the eleventh month of its l… I feel the November