Sunday, March 27, 2011

Typical Plathian brilliance...

...especially impressionable upon dumb asses who happen to be awake (for no fucking good reason) at four ayem.

This poem scares the crap out of me.

Death & Co.

Two, of course there are two.
It seems perfectly natural now—
The one who never looks up, whose eyes are lidded
And balled¸ like Blake's.
Who exhibits

The birthmarks that are his trademark—
The scald scar of water,
The nude
Verdigris of the condor.
I am red meat. His beak

Claps sidewise: I am not his yet.
He tells me how badly I photograph.
He tells me how sweet
The babies look in their hospital
Icebox, a simple

Frill at the neck
Then the flutings of their Ionian
Then two little feet.
He does not smile or smoke.

The other does that
His hair long and plausive
Masturbating a glitter
He wants to be loved.

I do not stir.
The frost makes a flower,
The dew makes a star,
The dead bell,
The dead bell.

Somebody's done for.

—Sylvia Plath

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