#Americans #Modernism #XXCentury
beauty is a shell from the sea where she rules triumphant till love has had its way with her scallops and
Take it out in vile whisky, take i… in lifting your skirts to show you… crotches; it is this that is inten… You are it. Your pleas will alway… You too will always go up with the…
I’ve fond anticipation of a day O’erfilled with pure diversion pre… For I must read a lady poesy The while we glide by many a leafy… Hid deep in rushes, where at rando…
Upon the table in their bowl in violent disarray of yellow sprays, green spikes of leaves, red pointed petals and curled heads of blue
What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet— I lie here thinking of you. The stain of love
I feel the caress of my own finger… on my own neck as I place my colla… and think pityingly of the kind women I have known.
One leaves his leaves at home beomg a mullen and sends up a ligh… to peer from: I will have my way, yellow—A mast with a lantern, ten fifty, a hundred, smaller and smal…
This horrible but superb painting the parable of the blind without a red in the composition shows a group of beggars leading
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
When I am alone I am happy. The air is cool. The sky is flecked and splashed and wound with color. The crimson phalloi of the sassafras leaves
unless there is a new mind there cannot be a new line
Love is twain, it is not single, Gold and silver mixed to one, Passion 'tis and pain which ming… Glist’ring then for aye undone. Pain it is not; wondering pity
The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices
Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.
To make two bold statements: There’s nothing sentimental about a machine, and: A poem is a small (or large) machine made out of words. When I say there’s nothing sentimental about a poe...
